Sophia Holmes and the Reichenbach Fall (Sherlock's Daughter Fanfic)
by Dralice99
Summary: Book 12 Sophie has known for a while now that the Final Problem was approaching but she hasn't wanted to admit it. As she suspects it's drawing nearer, tensions rise amongst the Holmes'.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock have you checked your emails recently?" I ask, frowning at the unopened email in our work inbox. "Got one here from the National Art Gallery." He steps back out of the kitchen, frowning.

"What does it say?"

I click into it and skim read the letter.

"Sounds like one of their paintings was stolen from the auction house yesterday," I reply. "Quite a high profile one as well - could get us quite a bit of work in."

"Anything else on?" he asks and I click back to the inbox.

"Nothing," I reply, shaking my head. "It's this or staring at the wall for the next week."

"At least this will be a brief respite," dad says and I smile. "What's the name of the painting?"

"Falls of the Reichenbach," I say, clicking back into the email. "One of the old masters apparently."

"And what was the auction house that was selling it?"

"Highcliffe and Sons," I read. "Specialists in old masters I think."

The door downstairs opens and John comes up the stairs with the shopping.

"Come on then," dad says, grabbing his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck. John looks up from the kitchen table and breathes out in exasperation.

"You've got to be kidding," he says.

"What?" Dad says, clueless. "We've got a case John!"

"Already?" he asks, surprised. "That was quick."

"Might be getting quicker yet," I say, shutting down the laptop and fetching my own coat. "This one's going to hit the papers."

"Nice," John says, picking his keys back up and zipping them inside his coat. "No more holes in walls then?"

"We do hope," dad says with a grin.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm so glad you could make it, Mr Holmes," the Director of the gallery says as we arrive. "The police have been in but I'm afraid they couldn't help us much. As you can appreciate, this is a high priority painting and should have had the highest security protocols in place at all times. I do hope you can shed some light on what we've missed."

"I'm sure we can," dad says, as the Director leads us into his office. "What are the security protocols exactly?"

"I'm sure the auction house will answer that question better," he replies. "I can only go on what our representative witnessed."

"I don't work off heresay," dad replies. "Where is he, your representative?"

"Right, of course," the Director responds, flustered. "I believe she's in her office."

He leads us to the back of the building where there is a corridor of offices and knocks on one near the middle.

A woman in her fifties answers, looking harried.

"You must be Sherlock and Sophia Holmes," she says gesturing us inside but looks cluelessly up at John. "And..."

"John Watson," he replies, nodding.

"Good morning," she smiles nervously.

"How long have you been a representative of the National Gallery Ms..."

"Lamb," the woman replies to dad. "Elizabeth Lamb. I belive it must be well over twenty years."

"And in that time you must have seen quite a few auctions,"

"Yes," she answers. "Hundreds. But not so many like this one."

"How many heists have you witnessed?" I ask and she considers.

"I would say around three - at the auction house anyway. Art is one of the most stolen items because it is the most profitable."

"And did this one differ at all?" I ask.

"This one happened during the auction itself," she replies.

"While they were selling the painting?" John clarifies and she nods.

"Yeah. There was a group of them - they didn't sound English - and they burst in with guns."

"Did you see what happen to the painting?" dad asks but she shakes her head.

"We were on floor," she replies. "But I understand they would have followed house protocol which is for the auctioneer to roll the painting up and leave through the back entrance."

"Did you recognise the auctioneer?" I ask.

"Yes," Lamb answers. "It's always the same one for a high profile one. Nice man as well, I can't imagine what this must be doing to him."

"Thank you for your time, Ms Lamb," dad says walking back towards the door. She appears slightly stunned by our early exit but we've got all we need. The gallery clearly had no part to play.


	3. Chapter 3

The owner of the auction house takes us to his office when we arrive and dad and I pace the back of the room while John takes a seat.

"I wasn't there to see it personally," he says, looking through the paperwork, "but I can give you access to CCTV."

"That would be helpful, thank you," I say with a nod. "What do you know of the auctioneer?"

"Who James?" he asks, looking up. "Marvellous fellow. Been working here since his summer placement and never left. You can't honestly suspect him can you?"

"We will need to speak with him," I reply, frowning. "Is he here?"

"No, I'm afraid not," he replies. "Took a hit to the head while leaving with the painting and is in hospital now recovering from amnesia."

As if on cue, the door bursts open and a man in his thirties comes through.

"James!" the manager exclaims. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to someone," he says, his eyes wide and desperate. "It's about the painting."

"Of course, James. But are you in the right frame of mind?"

"I'd say he's in the best frame of mind," dad says, stopping pacing and walking towards him, studying his face. "What have you remembered?"

"I had the painting after I woke up," he says. "They didn't take the painting. I still have it."

"Where is it?" I ask, stepping forwards.

"Can't remember," he grimaces. "I remember waking up and leaving the building with it in my jacket. But then there's a gap between then and when I admitted myself to hospital."

I exchange a glance with dad. If he's an amnesiac there is every chance he will never remember where he put the painting.

"Where would protocol tell you to put it?" I ask.

"In the safe downstairs," he replies.

"I've checked," the manager says. "It's not there."

"Where else would you put it, James?" dad asks.

"I don't know," he replies desperately. "I can't remember!"

"Alright, James, calm down," John says. "Sherlock?" He indicates to the door. "Can I have a word?"

Dad nods and I follow them outside. John waits until the door closes before starting.

"I might have an idea," he says and we look to him.

"Of where the painting is?" I ask but he shakes his head.

"Of how to get the information about where he hid it."

"Okay how?" dad asks after a moments consideration.

"It's not infallible but hypnosis has been known to work in these sorts of cases."

I narrow my eyes as I look at him. Hypnosis is a bit far-fetched.

"You're joking, right?" I ask but he shakes his head.

"I bet if we give it a go we'll see results almost immediately."

Dad and I exchange another glance. It's the best we've got. Dad nods and John returns it.

"I think I know someone who might be able to help," he says. "Margaret Wraith conducted one like this a couple years ago. It just so happens we went to the same Comprehensive."

"Give her a ring and book James in for an immediate evaluation," dad instructs, looking through the door. "I'll get the homeless network to start looking into it, find out if any of them saw anything. Sophie, you get the CCTV and see if you can see anything."


	4. Chapter 4

The manager leads me into the control room a little while later and I watch the tapes, following James out of the auction room and through the corridor leading outside.

I'm intrigued to see why, when he was knocked out, his attacker didn't steal the painting but it would seem I'm a step closer to finding my answer.

As he walks down the hall, he's confronted by a heavily built man and they appear to have some kind of discussion. Clearly he knows him but what suprises me is that this isn't where he gets knocked out.

There appears to be some kind of fight, but James manages to get away unscathed. His attacker turns around and I pause the tape and zoom in.

Peter Ricoletti. One of the highest on Interpol's most wanted. What does he want with a priceless painting? He's more of a drug lord and one of the last I would suspect to trade in fine art. Unless he's working for Moriarty while his head is down.

I'm distracted by a buzz on my phone. Opening my messages, I read the text sent through by dad.

_Collision with car outside._

_SH_

Short but sweet. The hypnosis must have been a success. I flick across to the exterior cameras as I follow him outside and watch as he begins to run across the road. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a red Mazda pulls out and hits him side on, sending him flying.

The car stops and a woman gets out, rushing over to check if he's okay. There appears to be some kind of skirmish and James' hands are around her neck. She struggles against it, but he is too strong and soon she falls limp. Panicking, James carries her over to the boot of the car and stashes her inside before making off with it.

I screenshot the number plate as I get a clear shot of it and email it across to Lestrade before heading out to find dad and John.


	5. Chapter 5

As my cab pulls up outside the hypnotherapist's house, I get a call from Lestrade.

"Wait here," I tell the cab driver as I get out, accepting the call as I walk towards the front door and ring the bell. "Where is it?"

"London Lawn House," he replies. "You know it?"

"Yep," I reply. "Get your guys down there but wait for us. There's a body in the boot of the car plus a rather priceless painting."

"The Reichenbach?" he asks. "You found it already?"

"Who do you think I am, Lestrade?" I return, pretending to be offended. "If you had thought to look at the CCTV it would have been obvious."

"Well once again we're in your debt," Lestrade says. "I'll see you down there." I end the call as the door opens and the three men come out. James looks a little stunned and he's clearly remembered more since our phone call.

"I've found the car," I tell them as we walk back towards the cab. "London Lawn House," I say to the driver as they get in. "What else happened?"

"Turns out James had seen her before," John tells me as dad looks thoughtfully out the window. "Spoke to her about a gambling problem and they got talking. One thing led to another and a few months later they got married but he became obsessed with her and eventaully absusive. She made him forget her basically."

"So the driver of the car that hit him must have reminded him of her and so he took his anger out on her," I say in realisation.

"What?" John asks.

"He didn't mention he murdered the woman who hit him with the car and stashed her in the boot?" I ask and James looks to the side, uncomfortable. "The police are waiting in the car park."

Five minutes later, the cab pulls up outside the carpark and we walk inside. James has to be strongly persuaded to follow us as we make our way towards the waiting policemen but fortunately he dumped the car quite close to the entrance.

Lestrade walks towards us when he sees us, accompanied by two officers who arrest James.

"Body in the boot and the painting in the glove compartment," he says, shaking his head. "Enough evidence here to put him down for life."

"Brilliant," dad says. "Now hand over the painting."

"But Sherlock -" Lestrade protests but dad interrupts.

"Scotland Yard dropped the case," he reminds him. "I believe it's our turn to take the credit." Lestrade looks between us for a moment before nodding and gesturing for another officer to bring forward the painting, contrained within an evidence bag. "Thank you."

"Right then everyone," Lestrade calls back to his officers. "Let forensics take over."

I look to dad and grin. Time to claim our fame.


	6. Chapter 6

The Director of the gallery is overjoyed when we return the painting and a week later we return for the press conference.

"_Falls of the Reichenbach_," he says, finishing a speech I'd tuned out. "Turner's masterpiece, thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"And Miss Sophia Holmes," I mutter under my breath but loud enough that John hears and nudges me in the side. The patrons applaud and the Director gives a small gift-wrapped box to dad.

"A small token of our gratitude."

Dad takes the box and looks at it. "Diamond cufflinks," he says. "All my cuffs have buttons."

"He means thank you," John says to the affronted Director.

"Do I?" dad asks.

"Just say it."

"Thank you," he says insincerely and starts to walk away.

"Hey," John says, holding dad back and dad unwillingly stops as the press start to take photos. Finally the cases might start to get interesting!


	7. Chapter 7

"Well we made the front page," John says, throwing down a copy of the Independent.

"'Hero of the Reichenbach'," I read, picking it up. "'Turner masterpiece recovered by 'amateur'; Scotland Yard embarrased by overlooked clues'." I look up, smiling. "Well it's not exactly the first time is it?!" I hand it back to John who continues to read out the article for dad's benefit.

"'A Turner masterpiece worth £1.7million that was stolen from an auction house ten days ago has been recovered by an amateur detective from North London," John reads. "Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street has been investigating the art crime simply as a hobby, and yet he was able to follow the trail that lead him to the famous work - a trail that Scotland Yard missed completely. Sherlock Holmes has gained cult following following the publication of his website - The Sci- ...'"

"Any mention of me?" I ask, eyebrows raised in annoyance. John shakes his head.

"Nope - oh wait," he shows me the final paragraph.

"'Mr Holmes was assisted by his daughter Sophia Holmes (17)'. Really?!" Dad laughs at my annoyance. "It's not funny!" I retort. "I was the one who found the car!"

Dad doesn't have time to respond as DI Jane Tennison is led into the room by Mrs Hudson.

"I see you guys have seen the papers," she says. "You ready for another one?"

Dad leaps to his feet and walks over to the table as Tennison lays the bundle in front of me.

"British banker went overseas on some EU project in Georgia, goes missing after leaving his home. We've been trying to solve this one for months and time's ticking now. You want it?"

"We'll solve it within the week," dad says and I grin, starting to flick through the papers.

"Course you will," Tennison replies, winking at me. "You've got Sophie helping you."

I grin as dad turns stoney-faced and leads her out of the room before opening up my laptop.

Pulling up the EU page online I log onto the members section under Mycroft's name and password. Once again, he has used the same password as he always does which as head of the British Government, secret service and whatever else he choses to be, is quite concerning.

Moving over to the search bar, I type in the keywords 'Georgia' and 'bank' but as I click the return key, I'm redirected to a page warning of increased security.

"Mycroft has the originals detailing the bank programme," I say, closing the laptop again. "It's been kept offline for security."

"I wonder why," dad says sarcastically, looking pointedly at me.

"What do you think Mycroft pulled them offline to stop Sophie hacking into them?" John asks.

"The bastard," I say, standing up. "Is he home?"

"No," dad replies. "He has a meeting with the Russian ambassador today, he's expected to be out all day."

"House break it is then!" I say, grabbing my coat and striding towards the door. John and dad follow behind.


	8. Chapter 8

The taxi pulls up at the end of Mycroft's unnecessarily long driveway and we get out.

Mycroft's home is his office. Like us, he isn't great with the whole work/life balance and keeps most of his information on hand so he can have his hands on it at a moments notice.

Although his trick of keeping the information offline has delayed me, having to bypass his security systems won't be any more difficult than hacking into the website. I have the added bonus of knowing the passkey. I type it into the lock and wait until the door clicks before erasing the history so it doesn't show up when Mycroft checks it when he comes back.

Dad leads us through the manor towards the back before reaching the door heading downstairs. The house has two floors above ground but also below it which is as close as the work/life separation goes - work below ground, life above. The door we're stuck behind, however has another security pass. A finger print scanner.

"Mycroft really needs a better security system," dad says rolling his eyes and reaching into his pocket for a roll of selotape. He goes back to the light switch at the end of the corridor and applies the tape, pressing down on it firmly so the print transfers fully before bringing it back and putting it against the scanner. The machine processes it for a second before opening the door and dad and John pass while I wipe the memory again before following after them.

We're fortunate that Mycroft is incredibly organised in his method of storing information and it doesn't take us long to find the banker's file.

"Peter Shaw, consultant for a the economic development programme under the EU," I skim read. "Positioned in Tbilisi, Georgia." Well it's been a while since we've been abroad. Dad rips the card containing Shaw's address and other personal details from the file before I put it back and make our way out.


	9. Chapter 9

We drive straight to Heathrow, planning to catch the next flight to Georgia.

The plane is full of business men and women but very few holidaymakers. Georgia isn't exactly the best place to go for a holiday, especially with all the unrest at the moment.

"We regret to inform you that landing will be delayed slightly in light of an incident in Tbilisi," the voice on the intercom says, twenty minutes before we were due to land. I frown and look to dad.

"Some kind of coup?" I ask him and he nods.

"Possibly. The way Mycroft's been acting recently the pressure has been mounting."

"Could it have something to do with the banker?" John asks, leaning forwards from behind us. "He was mixed up with the EU wasn't he? Could be linked."

"Possibly but there's several different parties all vying for power in Georgia. Any one of them could have our banker."

Bit of a filler chapter but I just wanted to link in Mary's AGRA backstory because it would be happening round about when this was.

AW


	10. Chapter 10

When we eventually land it isn't without warning of the uprising. As we catch a taxi into Tblisi, there are gun shots echoing around, bouncing off buildings. We stick to the outskirts, keeping away from the main frey of rebellion.

Shaw's family had moved into a small townhouse a small commute away from the bank in the city centre. As we arrive outside, dad jumps out and knocks on the door, leaving John to deal with the taxi driver who knows very little English.

"Mrs Shaw," dad says as the door opens. "We're here about your husband. May we come in?"

"Are you the police?" she asks as she leads us into the living room.

"We're specialists the police consult," I assure her. "You may have heard of us - we found the Reichenbach painting a few days ago."

"Of course," she says, eyes widening. "Sorry, it's just been a tough few months without Peter. It's getting to the point now where we're losing hope of seeing him again."

"They would keep him alive," dad says and she looks reassured. "They'll be trying to get a ransome out of him. Have you had a letter yet?"

"Only the one I showed to the police at the beginning of this," she says shaking her head. Dad looks to me.

"There was only the copy in the bundle they gave me," I say. "Did you have the original still?"

"Of course," she says, standing up. "It's in the chest outside, excuse me." She leaves the room and dad and I exchange a look. She looks a mess, I can't imagine she had anything to do with the kidnapping.

A young boy comes through another door at the end of the room.

"You here about father?" he asks, frowning as he sees us. We nod. "He never wanted to come out here in the first place."

"What persuaded him?" John asks.

"One of his colleagues was making the transfer as well. Can't remember his name, he had an Italian surname I think. Sounded Italian anyway. Peter something or other."

"Peter Ricoletti?" dad questions and the boy nods.

"Do you know him?" he asks and we exchange a look as his mother comes back in.

"Go back upstairs please Rhodri," she says as she hands dad the letter. The boy glares at her but turns and leaves the room. "He's Peter's kid but he was supposed to be living with us for the summer. He's a sweet boy but he keeps interfering with the investigation. I wouldn't take anything he said too seriously."

"I don't know, Mrs Shaw," I say flatly. "Rhodri was just able to name one of our suspects. I think maybe instead of ignoring him, people should start listening to what he has to say."

Dad passes me the letter as he finishes with it, leaving me to make my own deductions.

The envelope is cheap and thin which would have been perfect for dusting fingerprints but too many people would have touched it by now for it to give us a lead. The same goes for the seal which we could have tested for saliva. The letter inside, however tells us a lot more.

It's slightly damp and a smudge in the top right hand corner suggests it was being written in a wet environment, either outside when it was raining or somewhere else. The fact the writing is quite scruffy and doesn't follow the lines on the paper suggests the lighting was poor so he was clearly not outside. What's more likely is he's being kept underground somewhere.

I read through the letter until I reach where it says the ransome should be left.

"Did you ever give them any money?" I ask Shaw's wife but she shakes her head. Dad gives me a questioning look. "Mrs Shaw would you mind placing some bait money in the location they said so we can find where they have your husband?"

"I suppose so - if you're sure it'll work?"

"It will," I assure her. Even if the person who picks up the money doesn't go back to the place where Shaw is being kept, we'll still be one step closer to finding him.


	11. Chapter 11

We watch from across the road as Shaw's wife hides the money package under the park bench before walking away. We shouldn't have to wait long before someone comes to check on it.

In fact, it's just five minutes later that a man in a business suit comes and looks under the bench and takes the package away. We start to follow him, keeping far behind him but not so far that we lose him.

He makes his way towards the centre of the city where the uprising is taking place.

"Stay inbetween us," John mutters as gunshots echo around us. I nod but pat the inside of my jacket to make sure my pistol is accessible.

We somehow manage to keep track of him amongst the chaos. As we reach the most dense part of the fighting, the man in front takes a call. He continues to walk but at one point looks behind, clearly to check he isn't being followed. His eyes sweep over us so he doesn't appear to have seen us. I see him say something to the other end before turning back around and changing direction, heading back out of the frey.

"Taking it straight to Ricoletti?" I ask and dad nods.

"It would appear so."

We walk for another ten minutes through a rabbit warren of streets before we reach a shady looking area. The man disappears inside one of the houses and we stop at the end of the road.

"Right Sherlock," John says, looking around. "We need a plan." Dad's eyes flicker around the street, measuring up the houses.

"I've got one," I say after a moment. "It isn't ideal but it should be fun." After explaining it to them they reluctantly agree.

"We'll be outside if you need anything," John says. "If we hear any trouble we'll be in straight away."

"Nah," I say. "It'll be fine. See you in a sec." I turn away and walk towards the house the man disappeared inside. I eye the window as I approach and the men inside see me and come to the door. "What've you done with my father you bastards?!" I demand.

"Get lost, little girl," a burly man with heavily inked arms replies in a thick accent and attempts to shut the door.

"My mother paid the money, now give me back my father!" I say, putting my foot in front of the door to stop it from shutting. The two men look to each other before dragging me inside.

"If you want to see your father so much, little girl, you can stay with him. We can get double the ransome that way." Brilliant!

"Get off of me!" I scream, struggling against their grip but they're too strong. So far so good.

They lead me to the back of the house before one of them relaxes their grip on me and bends down, reaching for a hook in the floor.

"We have a gift for you, Mr Shaw," the man says. "Just as a little thank you for your wife paying the ransome." As he lifts the hatch in the floor up, I jump up, still restrained by the other man, and kick the first head over heels. I then throw my head backwards, hitting the other man in the face and surprising him enough to let me go. Reaching for my gun, I shoot both men in the shoulder before bending down and helping the banker up out of the hole.

"Good to see you, Mr Shaw," I say as he blinks in the sudden daylight. "Now if you'll excuse me I have an exit plan to work out."

The gunshots have alerted the others who make their way into the hallway. The front door bursts open and dad and John charge in, taking a man each.

"Get him out," dad calls and I nod, putting an arm around Shaw and ducking in and around the fight ensuing. Before we reach the door, however, I notice the package half open on the table in what I assume was originally the living room and dive inside to get it. Another hand grabs me from behind as I tuck the money inside my jacket and I grab hold of it and twist it around. As I face him, I kick him in the stomach before letting him go and turning back to the doorway and running out, pulling Shaw along with me as he waits in the hall.

The street is deserted so I don't have to worry about more henchmen coming from different directions. I usher Shaw behind me as we back against the stone wall outside the house, slightly shielded by the tree in the front garden. The door opens and I wait as I hear the footsteps and hushed whispers. It's not dad and John. I step back around the hedge and make the most of their momentary hesitation to shoot them in the knee. Seconds after, John and dad emerge from behind, walking quickly away. Dad is sporting a gash down his left cheek but it isn't deep, barely a surface wound. Otherwise, they look fairly untouched, if a little ruffled in appearance. All in all a pretty successful rescue mission!


	12. Chapter 12

A few days after, we are back in England attending our second press conference in as many weeks.

The Shaws had decided to move back after everything they'd been through and we stand outside a nice white town house in the centre of London as the press take photos.

Shaw stands with his arms around his wife and Rhodri as he gives his speech.

"Back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal," he says, "and we have one person to thank for my deliverance – Sherlock Holmes."

"Well actually more than one person," I mutter, but I'm drowned out by the applause. "You might be forgetting the person who actually got him out."

John nudges me and I stop talking as Rhodri offers a small, gift-wrapped box to dad, grinning. Dad takes it and rattles it briefly, doing the same quick scan as he did in the gallery.

"Tie pin," dad says in a low voice. "I don't wear ties."

"Shh," John replies.

We hang around for a few minutes more but disappear as the press start interviews.

His kidnapper and the man behind the theft of the Reichenbach, Peter Ricoletti, is still out there somewhere. He wasn't at the house in Georgia, much as we suspected. But he is still one of the highest on Interpol's most wanted and appears to be integral to the most recent sequence of crimes. We need to find him.


	13. Chapter 13

"Here we go," John says, handing dad and I a newspaper each. "We've made it to the cover again."

I take the one he offers me and scan the heaine.

"'Reichenbach hero finds kidnap victim'," I read. "Well that of course depends on who you think the true hero of the Reichenbach was." I toss it aside and dad hands me his. The headline reads 'Top Banker Kidnapped' which sounds slightly more promising so I read ahead.

'_Sherlock Holmes was last night being hailed a hero yet again for masterminding the daring escape of the kidnapped man._

_Scotland Yard had to secretly bring in their special weapon (in the form of Mr Holmes) yet again. The case has drawn a huge amount of attention as the nation became divided about the outcome of the kidnapping. Bankers are certainly not the nations sweethearts any more, but Mr. Holmes certainly seems to be. As huge crowds gathered for the press conference, Mr Holmes was presented with a gift from ...'_

I stop reading again, annoyed. Turning the page, another title catches my eye.

'_Ricoletti evades capture_'.

It suggests, as we thought, that he's the one responsible for the kidnapping. I think we know what our next case will be.


	14. Chapter 14

"So we know Ricoletti was in Georgia when Shaw set up the bank a few months ago," I say, stabbing a drawing pin onto the map over Georgia. "What else do we know?"

We've summoned Tennison over and she hands me over a file.

"We've been doing a bit of digging since you guys uncovered it was Ricoletti who organised the heist," she says. "There's a few people who he's close to: Gorbachyk Sergiy and Singh Malkit. Nasty guys."

"Names ring a bell," I say, nodding. "They're also quite high up on Interpol aren't they?"

"Numbers two and four," she agrees. "We have people watching them."

"Look out for any changes in behaviour," dad says, stepping forwards and taking the files from my hand and pulling out the photos. "Where are they now?"

"London currently," Tennison replies.

"I need to know what phonecalls they're getting, where they're going, who they're seeing. If they so much as sneeze I need to know about it."

"How do you propose we do that?"

"You have your methods, I have mine." He walks towards the door and puts his coat on, fishing through his pockets for his wallet. Homeless network. "Go off and talk to people."

Tennison nods. "Right then, I'll see you later guys." She passes dad and he follows behind her.

As they leave, I go back to my computer and start opening some software.

"What are you doing?" John asks, looking over my shoulder.

"Tennison has her methods, dad has his. Mine are more reliable," I explain. The programme opens and I start typing in the coordinates of the house in Georgia where the banker was being held. "What's a key aspect of all of our lives John? What would you never leave the flat without?"

"I dunno," he says. "Coat, keys... ah!" he says in realisation. "You're tracking phone signals!"

"Correct," I smile as the computer screen gives me an aerial view of the street we were on. "Every phone call that's made, any photo that's uploaded online, even when the phone is being unused - all of that data gets passed through cell towers."

"Cell? But you said Franklin only used that term because of the time spent in America."

"That was the original name for the mobile phone," I point out. "BT used to be Cellnet, mobiles used to be cells. Cell towers are still cell towers. It's our language which has changed this time." He nods in understanding so I take it as a cue to keep explaining. "If we trace the phone signals passing through the nearby cell tower up to a week before we were there, we will get thousands of results." I type this into the programme and indeed, 3,108 references come back. "Now if we follow those phone signals into this week and look for the ones in London now, we get a much lower number to work with." I type this as well and it throws back four results. I point to the screen as I explain. "Two results in Baker Street - that's us - one moving towards the river - that's Sherlock - and one in Stepney. That's where Ricoletti is."

"Amazing," John remarks and I roll my eyes. "Sorry, but that was. How did you know he'd have a phone? Don't these King Pins tend to have disposable phones?"

"Their runners might but the main gang leaders will have a constant number. That's why none of the others we met in Georgia are coming up in London - their phones have already been destroyed." I stand up, closing the laptop down and putting on my coat. "Now it's just the matter of who can get there first: me or Sherlock!"


	15. Chapter 15

We stop the taxi at the end of the road that the cell data said Ricoletti was.

"Shouldn't we call the police?" John asks in a hushed voice as we walk down the road.

"What, and lose the credit for his capture?!" I exclaim. "I think not!"

"But he's not going to be alone, is he? He's going to have people there protecting him. Sophie -" he grabs hold of my arm and spins me around. "I think we should wait for your dad."

"No need," I say, glancing over to the road. John looks in the same direction and spots dad walking away from the taxi. He sees us and frowns, beginning to head towards us.

"Ricoletti was last seen heading towards this street fifteen minutes ago," Dad says, starting to talk immediately. "The only problem is we lost him just after."

"Don't worry, I know where he is," I say with a small grin. Getting one over on him is always satisfying.

"How?"

"I've been tracking his cell data," I explain. "He's just at the end of the road." I walk past him, leaving him behind slightly stunned.

"Having fun?" John asks with an eyebrow raised as he catches up.

"Always," I reply.

Unlike the house in Georgia, this one looks completely ordinary. There are curtains in the windows and the rooms are furnished - it's not like they're squatting in some abandoned house. This must be where he lives. To an outsider it would look no different to the other houses along this street: it's the perfect facade for what lies within.

"Do we have a plan?" John asks as we turn up the path.

"Wait for the police to turn up and keep Ricoletti busy until they do," dad replies and John nods in satisfaction.

"Well at least you phoned the police," he says and dad frowns.

"I haven't," he states. "I thought you had."

"Oh for..." John exclaims. "You mean to tell me neither of you have phoned the police?!"

I grin and nod, continuing to walk towards the door. I ring the bell and wait outside. John stands apprehensively on the doorstep beside me.

"Sherlock aren't you going to call the police?"

"It's too late now," dad replies quietly as I see a figure behind the frosted glass. The door opens and Ricoletti stands behind it. The panic flashes momentarily across his face before he composes himself.

"Ah, took you long enough," he says.

"Tell us about Moriarty and we won't have to take this to the police," I say and Ricoletti smiles nastily.

"I think you should come inside," he says and leads us in. I check my gun is in place in case this turns sour as he takes us to the living room. He gestures for us to sit so we sink down onto a plushy three-seat sofa. "I'm afraid your journey is wasted, my dear. I know nothing of this Moriarty bloke other than what I've heard on the grapevine, as it were." He's telling the truth. Gritting my teeth, I stand up to leave and dad and John follow.

"Thanks for your time, Ricoletti," I say, starting to walk forward. "The police will be made aware of your address." I move past him but he grabs hold of my arm and pushes me back towards the chair."

"Steady!" John shouts, putting his hand out warningly. "She's a kid."

"I'm not a child, John," I retort.

"Maybe you ought to keep better control of your associate and daughter, Mr Holmes," Ricoletti laughs. "You're not going anywhere. I hear Moriarty has a price on your heads and I intend to be the one to collect it. He wasn't fussy whether you were dead or alive so that will depend on how cooperative you are."

My eyes widen in realisation. The Reichenbach heist, the kidnapped banker - it was all to get our attention.

"It was a trap," I breathe and Ricoletti laughs.

"Of course it was. I'm not an idiot - I don't intentionally leave my phone on so it can be tracked." Ricoletti clicks his fingers and men I recognise from Georgia come forward. "It didn't take much to get you to come. A couple bribes to the papers to make sure Mr Holmes got the credit and not you was sure to wind you up enough to go it alone. So lost in your own arrogance that you assume you don't need the police and I'm afraid your arrogance is going to be the downfall of all of you."

One of the men grabs me by the arm and drags me up but at that moment there is a loud bang and the front door flies open.

"You took your time!" I shout to Tennison as she runs into the room. I elbow the man behind me and break loose. Ricoletti grimaces.

"I thought you said you didn't call them!" John says, looking bewildered at both me and dad.

"Do you think I'm an idiot John?!" I look at Ricoletti and grin. "You think I didn't see this was a trap? It was too easy."

"You're getting slow, Mr Holmes," Tennison calls as she clasps the handcuffs around Ricoletti. "Sophie called me five minutes before you did with an address."

"You both called her?!" John asks in surprise and I shake my head in disbelief.


	16. Chapter 16

We're invited to a Police Press Conference a week later held by Lestrade. Tennison stands to the side of the room with a smile while dad, John and I stand on the stage beside Lestrade. I see Donovan and Anderson smirking at the back of the room and avert my gaze. There's a lot of press here so hopefully I might be given credit in at least one.

"Peter Ricoletti," Lestrade begins and the room quietens. "Number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list since 1982. But we got him; and there's two people we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads ... with all their customary diplomacy and tact!"

Dad and I smile insincerely at him while John leans in closer.

"Sarcasm," he says quietly.

"Yes," dad replies as the press applaud.

Lestrade walks over and hands dad and I a gift-wrapped package each, smiling cheerfully which makes me suspicious to what's inside.

"We all chipped in," Lestrade says and we tear the wrapping paper open. Anderson and Donovan grin expectantly as we pull out our gifts.

Mine is a Victorian hat like the one I wore several months ago in the iconic photo taken at the end of the Aluminium Crutch case. I look across at what dad has and see the deerstalker in his hands. I laugh, knowing how much he loves that hat.

"Oh!" dad exclaims in mock happiness.

"Put the hats on! Put the hats on!" the reporters call.

"Yeah, guys, put them on!"

Dad glares at the reporters like he's going to kill them but I laugh and put the hat on. John clears his throat uncomfortably.

"Just get it over with," John says quietly. Glowering at him and no doubt suspecting, as I do, that he had some part to play in this, dad unhappily puts the hat on. As a cue, flashbulbs go mad and everyone applauds. At the back of the room, Donovan claps with sarcastic delight while Anderson grins smugly. Dad smiles at the press through gritted teeth and glances at Greg as if promising him a world of pain later but I bask in the attention. Like mother like daughter.


	17. Chapter 17

Mrs Hudson delivers the days papers in the morning.

"You're in these ones, Sophie love," she says, handing me a copy of the Daily Mail. I flick through it to find the article and scoff.

"Baby Holmes?!" I cry, passing the paper to John. "They must be having a laugh. _Baby_ Holmes!"

Dad stomps across the room in his blue dressing gown over shirt and trousers, clearly having read his, and throws the Daily Star onto the coffee table on top of the other papers Mrs Hudson brought up.

"Boffin," he says indignantly. "Boffin Sherlock Holmes."

"Everybody gets one," John says.

"One what?" dad asks.

"Tabloid nickname: 'SuBo'; 'Nasty Nick.' Shouldn't worry – I'll probably get one soon."

"Page five, column six, first sentence," I say and as John turns to the relevant page, dad walks over to the fireplace and angrily punches his deerstalker.

"Why is it always the hat photograph?" dad asks.

"_Bachelor_John Watson?" John reads aloud, ignoring dad.

"What sort of hat is it anyway?"

"Bachelor?" John exclaims. "What the hell are they implying?"

Dad holds the hat up and twists it back and forth rapidly. "Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"

"It's a deerstalker," I tell him, rolling my eyes.

"Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson ..." John reads aloud.

"You stalk a deer with a hat? What are you gonna do – throw it?"

"..._confirmed_ bachelor John Watson!"

"Some sort of death frisbee?"

"Okay, this is too much," John says. "We need to be more careful."

"It's got flaps ... ear flaps. It's an _ear_ hat, John," dad points out, skimming the hat across the room to John who instinctively catches it. "What do you mean, 'more careful'?" he asks, finally paying attention.

"I mean this isn't a deerstalker now; it's a Sherlock Holmes hat," John explains. "I mean that you're not exactly a _private_ detective any more."!He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "You're this far from famous."

"Oh, it'll pass." Dad slumps down into his armchair and forms the prayer position in front of his mouth.

"It'd better pass," John warns. "The press _will_ turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you and Sophie."

Dad lowers his hands and looks more closely at John. "It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me and Sophie? I don't understand – why would it upset yo_u?" _I stay silent, watching this play out as John holds his gaze for a moment before looking away.

"Just try to keep a low profile," he suggests. "Find yourselves a _little_ case this week. Stay out of the news."

"Boring," dad moans.

"Look - you've got cases waiting to be opened on your emails," he says, passing dad his phone. "Pick any of them and keep yourselves occupied. I'm taking a shower."

John strides past us and I open up my emails as dad sets up place at the dining table by his microscope. The case of Henry Fishgard catches my eye so I spend a few minutes setting up the crime scene, which in this case involves hanging a shop mannequin (which we just happen to have lying around!) from the ceiling by a rope. His wife seems certain that he didn't commit suicide and that it was a burglary gone wrong. She believes the burglars hanged him to make it look like he killed himself and left in a hurry. So far, however, I'm struggling with the case facts.

Dad's phone trills a text alert from across the room as John comes out the bathroom.

"It's your phone," he points out.

"Mm," dad mutters, disinterested. John walks past him and into the living room, passing under the mannequin Henry Fishgard and sitting down in his seat with another newspaper.

"So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?" John asks me and I glare at him.

"Funny!" I say sarcastically. "Henry Fishgard never committed suicide."

Dad slams and old hardback book shut causing dust to go everywhere before turning back to his microscope. "Bow Street Runners: missed everything."

"Pressing case, is it?!" John asks sarcastically.

"They're all pressing 'til they're solved," dad answers.

His phone trills again and John lowers his newspaper.

"I'll get it, shall I?" he says tetchilly, standing up and walking over to the phone before picking it up and checking the messages. His face fills with shock and I the case notes to study him as he turns and takes the phone to dad.

"Here," he says, holding the phone out.

"Not now, I'm busy," dad replies, not looking up.

"Sherlock ..."

"Not _now_."

John breathes heavily before talking. "He's back." This catches dad's interest and I walk over and take a look at the screen for myself.

_Come and play. _  
_Tower Hill. _  
_Jim Moriarty x. _

My eyes widen and dad sinks back into the chair, looking straight ahead. It takes me a moment to process it.

Dad's phone trills again but this time it's Lestrade.

"We're on our way," dad says as he answers it. I hear Lestrade protest how he knew but dad ends the call. It seems we're back in the game.


	18. Chapter 18

We arrive at the Tower half an hour later and are led to the security office to view the footage of the break-in.

I watch as Moriarty walks into the room with the Crown Jewels and looks at the glass cabinet containing them. He plays with his phone for a while, remaining in the same place before the security alarm appears to sound. As a guard comes to escort him out, he knocks him out with some kind of spray before seemingly beginning to dance. He sticks some chewing gum onto the glass cabinet before pushing something into it.

"That glass is tougher than anything," Lestrade says.

"Not tougher than crystallised carbon," dad replies. "He used a diamond."

Lestrade adjusts the footage, bringing it to another clip taken as the glass breaks. He rewinds it and brings it to the start. Moriarty stands, about to swing a fire extinguisher into the glass but there's something written deliberately backwards so that it reads perfectly on our camera.

The message reads 'GET SHERLOCK' with a smiley face scribbled inside the 'O'.

John glares at dad, showing him that this was exactly what he was on about.

"We'll be calling you as prosecution witness of course, Sherlock," Lestrade says. "See if we can't get this bugger banged up yeah?" Dad nods, only half with us as he zones out. "There's some press outside who want a word." He looks like he's about to agree but spots John glaring at him and shakes his head. "Alright, we'll clear a path as best as we can to the taxi."

As he leads us out, there is indeed tens of reporters waiting for us to make a statement but we push through the crowds to the taxi waiting outside and head back home to prepare for the trial.


	19. Chapter 19

We keep ourselves busy with little cases over the next few weeks while we wait for Moriarty's trial, finding out snippets of his other hearings as he passes through the justice system.

On the morning of the trial, I dress in my usual outfit: a white chiffon blouse with a narrow black ribbon tied in a bow around my collar, black jeggings and a blazer. I join them in the living room as John finishes tying his tie in front the mirror. Dad buttons his jacket up before leading us downstairs and stopping, allowing John to pass him.

He pauses as he reaches out towards the door. "Ready?"

"Yes," dad replies.

I brace myself as John opens the door, revealing the large crowd of journalists being held back by police offices as they being photographing us and calling out questions. The officers make a path through the crowd to the waiting police car.

"Get in," John instructs and I slide into the middle seat as dad sits down beside me. John comes round and sits the other side of me before the car pulls away and races off, sirens wailing.

We sit quitely almost the whole way until John breaks the silence.

"Remember ..."

"Yes," dad interrupts immediately.

"Remember ..." John repeats, more insistently.

"Yes," dad says again, even more quickly. John looks away in frustration before speaking quickly.

"Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever ..."

"No," dad says, talking over him.

"... and _please_, just keep it simple and brief."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent," he replies bitterly.

"'Intelligent,' fine," John nods. "Let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

There's a small pause before dad speaks again. "I'll just be myself."

"Are you listening to me?!" John demands in irritation.

We pull up outside the Old Bailey and get a police escort up the steps outside and through security before he leaves us alone to get ready.

I head off for the loo and John and dad wait a little way down the corridor for me. As I finish and wash my hands an announcement comes over the tannoy. "Crown versus Moriarty – please proceed to Court Ten."

I turn off the tap and look into the mirror. A woman in a victorian style hat stares at me in awestruck amazement. Her bag slips out of her fingers and drops to the floor.

"You're her!" she says and I take in her homemade 'I ❤ Sherlock' badge on her jacket. "I'm a _big_ fan."

"Evidently," I say, turning around.

"I read your cases; follow them all." She steps closer, gazing adoringly at me. "Sign my shirt, would you?" She peels back her jacket to reveal a blouse buttoned quite low, showing a lot of cleavage. She offers me a pen which she already had in her hand. I frown and raise my eyes back up to meet hers after looking her over.

"There are two types of fans," I state.

"Oh?" she says curiously.

"'Catch me before I kill again' – Type A ..." Also known as Moriarty.

"Uh-huh," she nods. "What's Type B?"

"'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away.'"

The woman grins, her eyes still locked on mine. "Guess which one I am."

I look her over again, noticing the pressure marks below her wrist, dictaphone in jacket pocket and ink stains on her arm.

"Neither," I reply.

She blinks nervously. "Really?"

"No," I say. "You're not a fan at all." I point to the indentations in her skin below her right wrist. "Those marks on your forearm: edge of a desk. You've been typing in a hurry, probably. Pressure on; facing a deadline."

"That all?" she challenges and I narrow my eyes in dislike.

"And there's a smudge of ink on your wrist; and a bulge in your left jacket pocket." I raise my hand to point at the red light on the dictaphone which shows it's recording.

"Bit of a giveaway," she admits and I roll my eyes.

"The smudge is deliberate, to see if I'm as good as they say I am." I graps her arm and lift it up to smell the ink on her wrist. "Hmm. Oil-based," I conclude, "used in newspaper print, but drawn on with an index finger; _your_ finger."

"Hmm!"

"Journalist. Unlikely you'd get your hands dirty at the press. You put that there to test me."

"Wow, I'm liking you!"

"You mean I'd make a great feature: 'Sophia Holmes – the girl beneath the hat.'"

"Kitty ..." she says, dropping the act as she takes off the hat. "... Riley. Pleased to meet you." She offers her hand and I look down at it.

"No. I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview; no, I don't want the money." I push past her and head for the door but she chases after me.

"Your dad and John Watson – just platonic? Can I put you down for a 'no' there, as well?" She stands in the way of the door, stepping well into my personal space. I glare at her and sigh through gritted teeth, my patience really running thin. "There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side ..." She reaches into her pocket and tuck her business card into my jacket pocket, " ... someone to set the record straight."

"And you think you're the girl for that job, do you?" I ask, smiling sarcastically.

"I'm smart, and you can trust me, totally."

I snort but compose myself quickly. "Smart, okay: investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see." She stares back at me blankly and I smirk. "If you're that skilful, you don't need an interview. You can just _read_ what you need." Riley looks awkward and can't meet my eyes anymore. "No?" I question, unsurprised. "Okay, my turn." I walk away from the door and pace around her, taking her in before doing quick-fire. "I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so that their editor will notice them. You're wearing an expensive skirt but it's been re-hemmed twice; only posh skirt you've got. And your nails: you can't afford to do them that often. I see someone who's hungry. I don't see smart, and I _definitely_ don't see trustworthy, but I'll give you a quote if you like – three little words." I snatch the dictaphone up from her pocket and hold it close to my mouth and glare at Riley as she steps forward hopefully. "You ... repel ... me." I throw it back at her and she just about manages to catch it. As she fumbles with it in her hand, I turn and leave the room.

"Everything okay?" John asks with a frown as I walk back to where he was waiting.

Let me consider that. I might have just ruined our so-far stirling reputation with the press all because I detest pretenders.

"Yep, all good," I smile. "Just lady stuff." This puts John off the subject immediately.

"Sherlock's already gone in. I said I'd wait with you before we go to the public gallery."

I nod in agreement and follow him down to court 10 where I know Moriarty waits on the other side.


	20. Chapter 20

The court is in session for half an hour as the prosecution puts her case to the Jury before dad is called to the witness box. Moriarty stands in the dock opposite him, nonchalantly chewing on what I assume to be gum.

"A 'consulting criminal,'" the prosecution begins, reading from the witness statement dad prepared.

"Yes," dad confirms.

"Your words. Can you expand on that answer?"

"James Moriarty is for hire."

"A tradesman?" she asks.

"Yes."

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating," she continues and I raise an eyebrow waiting for dad's response. I can tell he's going to have fun with this woman.

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler."

I muffle my laughter behind my coat but I'm not the only one. John glares at me and I smirk. Although she's facing away from me, I can tell the prosecuting barrister is trying to hide her smile.

"Would you describe him as ..."

"Leading," dad interrupts and I bite my lip.

"What?"

"Can't do that," dad explains. "You're leading the witness." He looks to the defending barrister. "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

The judge looks exasperated. "Mr Holmes," he warns.

"Ask me how," dad suggests. "_How_ would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"

"Mr Holmes, we're fine without your help," the Judge says and I make eye contact with dad. He quirks a small smile and I shake my head, smiling back. A figure moving in front breaks my view and my eyes fall on Kitty who has picked up her shattered dignity and has made her way here at last.

"_How_ would you describe this man – his character?" the barrister tries again, correcting herself.

"First mistake." He draws his eyes away from us and locks his gaze on Moriarty. "James Moriarty isn't a man at all – he's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances." I see Moriarty nod along to this description of him, giving his approval. The prosecuting barrister clears her throat, ending the poetry of dad's description.

"And how long ..."

Dad closes his eyes in exasperation. "No, no, don't-don't do that. That's really not a good question."

"Mr Holmes," the Judge says angrily.

"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up." Dad's tone changes to sarcasm. "I felt we had a special something."

"Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?" the Judge demands and before she can make her justification, dad interrupts.

"Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample."

"Mr Holmes, that's a matter for the Jury," he argues.

"Oh, really?" Dad eyes the Jury box and John raises a hand to his head, willing dad to not start deducing them.

"One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City," he says quickly. "The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand."

"Mr Holmes!"

"Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits." Great example of a random Jury selection! Dad turns to the Judge. "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?" The two culprits look down at their suits and brush off the crumbs.

"Mr Holmes," the Judge says, getting redder in the face by the minute. "You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess." Dad looks up to us in pride and John glares back at him pointedly. "Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt." Dad raises his eyebrows as a comment on their idiocy. "Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes _without showing off_?"

Dad pauses, giving the question some thought before opening his mouth and drawing in a breath. "And then we have the matter if you, your honour. Three wives in as many years? Not great but certainly not out of the ordinary, unless you count the..."

"That's quite enough Mr Holmes!" the Judge rages. "Get him out of here."

John raises his head from his hands once dad is removed.

"Now I don't know about you, but I reckon we should give him a bit before picking him up."

I grin. "Sounds good to me."


	21. Chapter 21

The Judge calls it a day shortly afterwards, his temper now significantly shortened, he takes it out on the barristers.

"What did I say?" John lectures as dad signs for his personal property after putting up a surety to bail him out. "I said, 'Don't get clever.'"

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap," dad mutters, taking the bag handed to him by the custody officer. He turns to me as we walk away. "Well?"

"Well what?" I ask.

"You were there for the whole thing, up in the gallery, start to finish."

"Like we said it would be," I say, remembering Moriarty's barrister. "He sat on his backside, never even stirred."

"Moriarty's not mounting any defence," dad says thoughtfully.

"Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville," John says as we walk through the doors to the living room at Baker Street. "Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in, no-one knows how or why." He sits down in his armchair while dad begins to pace. "All we know is ..."

"... he ended up in custody." He stops pacing and turns to John who sighs.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?" I frown, looking at dad.

"You're both doing it," John says exasperated.

"Well, I can't see it, can I?" dad moans and John pointedly gestures to the mirror as if dad is an idiot for not realising it's there. Dad turns and looks at his reflection. "It's my face."

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we do."

"No. _I_ don't, which is why I find 'The Face' so annoying."

"If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them," I explain. "If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he _chose_ to be there. Somehow this is part of his scheme."


	22. Chapter 22

"You coming today?" John asks in the morning, putting on his jacket.

"Far too busy," dad replies and I raise an eyebrow at his horizontal body on the couch.

"Looks like it," John says. He looks to me and I nod to show I'm ready. It won't be a long court session today. Moriarty has no defence to mount. So long as he hasn't nobbled the Jury, a decision will be reached almost immediately. But if I know Moriarty, he's found some way to threaten the panel.

We arrive at court just before the session starts and we rise as the Judge enters the room. He spends a few minutes summing up the arguments we heard yesterday before addressing the defence.

"Mr Crayhill, can we have your first witness?"

The defending barrister rises to his feet and there's a slight pause before he speaks. "Your Honour, we're not calling any witnesses."

There are cries of surprise around the court and I notice John frown in confusion beside me. It is no surprise to me. Moriarty is the sort of person who woukd risk his liberty to be dramatic.

"I don't follow," the Judge says. "You've entered a plea of Not Guilty."

"Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence," he sighs, exasperated. He must be being paid a significant amount of money to do this. "The defence rests." He sits back down and I lower my gaze to meet Moriarty's eye as he turns slowly around and shrugs.

The Judge takes a moment to consider this and flicks through his notes. The courtroom sits in silence as we wait for what he is about to say. There is only one thing he _can _say now.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which – if he's found guilty – will elicit a very long custodial sentence; and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty," the Judge says before repeating for emphasis. "You _must_ find him guilty."

"Court rise!" the Clerk calls as the judge goes to stand. Everyone stands again and the Judge leaves the room while the Clerk leads the Jury into an adjoining room. The court empties and I lead John outside to wait for the Jury's return.

We wait on a bench just outside the courtroom and shortly after the Clerk hurries back out of the side room.

"They're coming back," he says, clearly recognising us from inside.

I look at my watch and raise an eyebrow. We left at 10:42 and it's just 10:50. "That's six minutes," I voice, taking two minutes off to account for them getting settled.

"Surprised it took them _that_ long, to be honest," he laughs. "There's a queue for the loo." He hurries into the court through one door and we go back into the public gallery through a separate one.

Back inside and once everyone is settled, the Clerk rises to his feet and faces the Jury.

"Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?" he asks them and I bite my lip. Judging by the despairing looks and unhappy stare the foreman gives as she stands, he has indeed found a way of getting to them.

"We have," she replies.

I narrow my eyes to look at her properly. There's something familiar about her, as if we've come across her on one of our cases.

"You must answer the next question with the answer 'guilty' or 'not guilty', do you understand?" The Clerk explains and she nods. "What is the verdict of which you have agreed?"

"Not guilty," she says hesitantly. The court gives out a cry of disagreement but the Judge silences them.

I'm hit with sudden realisation. I have seen her before, but not in person - just half a picture in the front of a cab. She's the cabby's ex-wife from a Study in Pink!

I stand up and make my way back through to the doors, sensing John following behind me. As soon as Moriarty is released, he'll be making his way back to the flat.

When we get outside, John calls dad. "Not Guilty," he says as dad pick up. "They found him Not Guilty. No defence, and Moriarty's walked free." John pauses, waiting for a response which he doesn't appear to get. "Sherlock. Are you listening? He's out. You-you _know_ he'll be coming after you. Sher..." Dad hangs up and John puts the phone down looking annoyed. "Your bloody father."

"John I think you had some shopping to do," I say distractedly as I hail a cab. "I'll go back home. Give us an hour or so. We need to speak to Moriarty alone." He goes to say something but I get into the cab and shut the door before he can.

"Only me," I say, slipping through the living room door. Dad is now dressed and is preparing the tea.

"Are you going to listen from your room like we agreed?" he asks, turning around as the kettle finishes boiling and pours the water into the teapot.

"Yep," I reply, grabbing my gun from the table and checking its load. "Same codeword yeah?"

Dad nods and picks up his violin. I know Moriarty will only be a fraction behind me so I quickly go to my room and wait. Dad begins to play Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor, and I know that's the cue to know Moriarty has arrived.

He continues to play until a noise downstairs distracts him momentarily and he pauses. He begins playing again a few seconds later.

"Most people knock," I hear dad say as he stops playing again. Moriarty must have arrived upstairs. "But then you're not most people, I suppose. Kettle's just boiled."

"Johann Sebastian would be appalled," Moriarty says, speaking at last. "May I?"

"Please."

"You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end ..."

"... and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it," dad finishes.

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody."

"Neither can you," dad points out. "That's why you've come."

"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with the verdict?"

"With _me ..." _he says softly,"... back on the streets. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." The phrase sends a shiver down my spine and Moriarty takes a moment before continuing. "You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels." I can't help but think of the angels we have met just in the last year. Cas, the weeping angels. 'Angel' is certainly not a generically good term anymore.

"Got to the jury, of course," dad changes the subject.

"I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

"Cable network," he breathes.

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen and every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm." Of course! The children Jeff wanted to protect by sponsored killing. Moriarty must have used that somehow to get to his family. "Easy-peasy."

"So how're you going to do it ..." Dad asks, "... _burn me_?"

"Oh, that's the problem – the final problem." My breath hitches at that familiar phrase. We've reached our last case. "Have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem? I did tell you ..." his tone changes to a soft sing-song, "... but did you listen?How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"

"I dunno," dad replies nonchalantly.

"Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; _awfully_ clever." Moriarty chuckles and I shudder at the sound. "Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what?"

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

"No."

"But _you_ understand."

"Obviously."

"Off you go, then."

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"No; I want you to _prove_ that you know it," Moriarty challenges.

"You didn't take anything because you don't _need_ to," dad replies.

"Good," he praises softly.

"You'll never need to take anything ever again."

"Very good. Because ...?"

"Because nothing ... _nothing_ in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I _own_ secrecy. Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world with locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should _see_ me in a crown."

"You were advertising all the way through the trial," dad realises. "You were showing the world what you can do."

"And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities ... terrorist cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex." He makes my skin crawl.

"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves _me_ the best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John and Sophie. I should get myself a live-in one." I bite my lip at being called 'ordinary'. Certainly not something I've been called before and frankly it's more insulting than being called a freak. "How is Sophie darling? I've heard she's doing well."

"Why _are_ you doing all of this?" Dad presses, a hint of agression behind his calm demeanour.

"It'd be so funny if something were to happen to her."

"You don't want money or power – not really. What _is_ it all for?"

"I want to solve the problem – _our_ problem; the final problem," he says softly and I have to move closer to the door to hear. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination." What does that mean? Is it a metaphorical fall? Or a literal one? I shudder. I knew this was coming, but I know I'll never be ready for it when it comes.

"Never liked riddles," dad replies.

"Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ..._owe_ ... you." I hear footsteps making their way towards the living room door and as I hear them reach the steps I leave it a few more seconds before coming back out.

"I did not like the sound of that," I grimace, passing through the kitchen. I narrow my eyes as dad holds up a penknife with an apple stuck on the blade. I take it from dad and examine it, noticing an 'I O U' carved into it. Dad's mouth twitches into a smile but I put the apple down and walk towards the bookshelf. I have some reading to do.


	23. Chapter 23

Moriarty goes of the radar almost immediately after leaving Baker Street and not even my methods will uncover him. We take John's advice though and stick to the smaller cases for the meantime, especially as I'm concerned the end may be quickly approaching. I've let Sam and Dean know and they're on standby with Cas for the moment I call. They're also working on contacting the Doctor so we have exra re-enforcements for when this goes down. I still don't think I'll be ready for when it happens.

Lestrade has acknowledged that we're taking a break from his cases and has stopped sending them our way for a while, but almost two months to the day after Moriarty's sentencing, I hear the DI's footsteps on the stairs. He's closely followed by Donovan who, by the sour look on her face, has been told to stay quiet.

"I've told you: I'm not taking your cases at the minute," dad says, typing as he talks as he follows up a lead we both know to be false.

"We weren't going to but..." he pauses, looking serious, "We need you."

Dad looks up and narrows his eyes as he takes Lestrade in. "By your apparent urgency it's not a murder because there tends to be a non-changing element attached to those. No by the looks of it, it's a kidnapping. Young child - no _children. _Am I right?"

"Course you're bloody right," Lestrade says, shaking his head in disbelief. "Will you come?" I hear footsteps on the stairs and turn to see John trotting up the stairs.

"Sherlock, something weird ..." he says, stopping when he sees Lestrade and Donovan. "What's going on?"

"Kidnapping," I answer as dad returns to his typing.

"Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S," Lestrade explains.

"He's in Washington, isn't he?" John asks.

"Not him – his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine," Lestrade replies and Donovan shows him photographs of the two children. "They're at St Aldate's."

"Posh boarding place down in Surrey," Donovan explains.

"The school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including those two," Lestrade says, talking to dad now.

"The kids have vanished," Donovan adds.

"The ambassador's asked for you personally." This triggers something in dad and he jumps to his feet and is almost already out of the door.

"The Reichenbach Hero," Donovan says sarcastically and dad pauses for a moment before continuing onwards, considering saying something but thinking better of it.

"Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity!" Lestrade says and I glare at him, a small smile playing at my lips before following dad outside.

Even with the sirens on, it takes us just over an hour to get down to the school. As Lestrade pulls up outside the school, I notice two police cars are already there and a woman is leaning against the bonnet of one of them, wearing a shock blanket and being comforted by a female police officer.

"Miss Mackenzie," Lestrade tells dad as we approach them, "House Mistress. Go easy." He holds back as dad and I walk over to the woman on our own.

"Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night," he says, talking fast and raising his voice angrily before continuing. "What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?" He grabs the blanket roughly and abruptly pulls it from her shoulders. She gasps in fear as he glares furiously at her and I roll my eyes at his methods. "Now quickly, _tell_ me!"

Mackenzie starts sobbing again and cringes away from dad in terror. "All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No-one – not even me – went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"

Dad changes his demeanour instantly and he smiles reassuringly and gently takes hold of her shoulders. "I do," he says softly. "I just wanted you to speak quickly." He looks at the nearby police officers as he turns and walks away. "Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now."

I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she starts sobbing in distress before walking away.

Lestrade takes us upstairs and guides us into the girl's room.

"Six grand a term, you'd expect them to keep the kids safe for you," John says, shaking his head. "You said the other kids had all left on their holidays?"

Dad and I start looking around the room for any clues that may have been left behind.

"They were the only two sleeping on this floor," Lestrade replies. "Absolutely no sign of a break-in."

I find a lacrosse stick and weild it briefly, considering its use as a weapon but studying it closer it looks unlikely so I drop it to the floor.

"The intruder must have been hidden inside some place," Lestrade continues and I nod in agreement. With so many people coming and going at the end of term, someone could have easily snuck in amongst them and hidden inside in wait.

Dad opens the lid of a wooden trunk against the wall and pulls out a brown envelope with a red wax seal, already broken. Dad peers inside the envelope and pulls out a copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Clearly a present from someone, but at a glance I can tell the seal is fresh - less than a week old. Why would a family member send a present just before the end of term? It doesn't make sense. There's also the fact that it links all to neatly into what Moriarty was saying about fairy tales.

"Show me where the brother slept," dad says and Lestrade leads us to a similar dormitory.

We take another look around and dad walks over to a bed. It's the only one which still has bedding so it's obviously the brother's and it has a clear line of view to the door and the frosted glass pane in it.

"The boy sleeps there every night," dad describes, "gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door. "

"Okay, so ..." Lestrade prompts.

"So," I say, catching on as dad walks towards the door, "someone approaches the door who he _doesn't_ recognise, an intruder." Dad stands closes the door behind him and he raises his hands and points his fingers like a gun. "Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon." It's clear from my position beside the bed that the boy what the boy would have been able to see through the glass. Dad comes back inside the room.

"What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room?" dad asks. "How would he use them if not to cry out?" He walks around the bed and I scan the shelves in his bedside cabinet that he could leave a message on. "This little boy; this particular little boy ... who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

"He'd leave a sign?" John asks and I nod in reply. Suddenly, dad catches a whiff of something and starts sniffing around, picking up a cricket bat and testing that. Putting it down again, he squats and sniffs around the bedside table and under the bed before pulling out an almost empty glass bottle of linseed oil.

"Get Anderson," dad demands and Lestrade nods and heads off, phone already in hand.

"Shall we freak him out?" I ask, giving dad a small grin.

"Vampires?"

"Vampires," I agree, nodding.

John looks puzzled. "What's this?"

"Just a trick we like to play on Anderson sometimes," I say. "Convince him that dad and I are vampires."

John snorts. "Why have I not seen this?!"

"Part of the fun is not doing it every time but to do it now and then," I grin.

Lestrade walks back into the room, followed by Anderson.

"Oh jolly, it's our favourite psychopaths," he says striding in. "Let me guess, you already know who done it by a stray hair on the floor."

"Sarcasm really doesn't suit you, Anderson," dad says. "There's too much sunlight in here, we're getting a bit warm. We need as much light blocked out as possible."

Anderson's eyes go wide and he nods hurriedly. I give dad a side glance and I see a smile creeping up the edge of his mouth as Anderson pulls the wooden shutters closed at the window. Lestrade hands dad a UV torch with a knowing grin and dad shines the light on the wall as Anderson comes over.

"Linseed oil," he says as the light reveals the message 'Help Us' written on the wall.

"Not much use," Anderson says dismissively, recovering some of his dignity. "Doesn't lead us to the kidnapper."

"Brilliant, Anderson," dad praises.

"Really?" he replies, surprised.

"Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot." I smirk as dad points downwards, shining the light close to the wooden floorboards. "The floor."

There are several sets of illuminated footprints of varying sizes leading towards the door and I follow them slowly.

"He made a trail for us!" John exclaims in realisation.

"The boy was made to walk ahead of them," I point out, envisaging the scene.

"On, what, tiptoe?" John asks, looking at some of the smaller marks.

"Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head," I explain, walking out into the corridor. They follow behind me with another UV light, careful to step around the streams of sunlight coming in around the shutters and wincing loudly when it touches me. "The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck." The footsteps end as the linseed oil runs out and I stop.

"That's the end of it," Anderson voices. "We don't know _where_they went from here. Tells us nothing after all."

"You're right, Anderson – nothing," I sigh, sounding disappointed for a moment before taking a breath and going quick firing. "Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace."

Dad walks over to the closest window and pulls out the blackout material, allowing light to flood back in.

"Careful," I warn dad as Anderson looks around. "Watch the light." Dad nods and edges back to the last clear footstep before kneeling down and taking out his wallet of tools and a small plastic petri dish from his pocket. Anderson and Lestrade step back into the dormitory as dad chuckles contentedly. I laugh quietly in return and John squats down beside us.

"Having fun?" he asks.

"Starting to," dad replies.

"Maybe don't do the smiling." Dad lifts his head in confusion. "Kidnapped children?" Dad lowers his head again and concentrates on scraping some of the floor with the boot treads off and into the dish, ready for analysis back at Bart's.


	24. Chapter 24

"But how did he get past the CCTV?" John asks after we catch a cab back to Bart's and start walking up to the labs. "If all the doors were locked ..."

"He walked in when they _weren't_ locked," dad replies.

"But a stranger can't just walk into a school like that."

"Anyone can walk in _anywhere_ if they pick the right moment," I explain. "Yesterday – end of term, parents milling around, chauffeurs, staff. What's one more stranger among that lot? He was waiting for them. All he had to do was find a place to hide." As we round the corner and walk through a set of fire doors, we spot Molly on the other side.

"Molly!" dad calls.

"Oh, hello," she says nervously. "I'm just going out."

Dad puts his hands gently onto her shoulders and wheels her around. "No you're not."

"I've got a lunch date," she protests.

He puts a hand on her back to start her walking again. "Cancel it. You're having lunch with me." He reaches into his pockets and dramatically produces a bag of Quavers crisps from each pocket that he picked up from the downstairs vending machine. Despite reminding him that her favourite crisps are in fact Skips, he insisted it was Quavers.

"What?"

"Need your help," dad replies, putting the crisps back into his pocket. "It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!"

Molly stops dead at the mention of Moriarty as dad passes through the set of fire doors at the other end of the corridor. John pauses too and stares at dad. "It's Moriarty?"

"Course it's Moriarty," I reply, rolling my eyes.

"Er, Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend," Molly says defensively. "We went out three times. I ended it."

"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville," dad reels off. "For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." Reaching into his pocket again, he brandishes a packet of Quavers at her before continuing on through the fire door.

Naturally dad wins her over and she's shortly back in her lab coat, staggering into the room weighed down by a pile of books and files she's carrying.

"So how we going to find the children from just a boot tread?" John asks.

"Oil, John," dad says as he looks up from his microscope and opens the petri dish beside him, taking out one of the samples with tweezers. "The oil in the kidnapper's footprint – it'll lead us to Moriarty." He drops the sample into a test tube so that it begins to fizz in the chemicals. He suctions some of the liquid up with a pipette before dropping it on a slide and slotting it under the microscope. "All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we're lucky we can see everything that he's been up to." He looks through the microscope as Molly sets down the books and pulls on some latex gloves. I sit by another microscope, analysing a seperate sample but we place a piece of paper between us to write our results.

"I need that analysis," dad says to Molly and she squeezes the same liquid onto a glass dish and applies litmus paper to it.

"Alkaline," she replies as the paper turns blue.

"Thank you, John."

"Molly," she corrects.

"Yes."

Molly turns away unhappily as dad writes the first compound 'Chalk' on our shared piece of paper. I do the same with mine, and the litmus reveals it must be Asphalt so I note that one down below it.

I repeat my processs again and reveal it to be Brick Dust so I write that one down as dad sets another one on fire with the bunsen burner. His turns out to be Vegetation.

Turning back to microscope for the final sample, dad tenses in concentration as he studies the slide. I begin to map out an idea of where this could be leading us. Must be some place in London with chalky clay which narrows it down considerably and then the brick dust suggests it's a building site. That only narrows it down to a couple hundred places in London! We need the final compound and then loads of feet on the ground checking them over.

"I ... owe ... you," dad mutters softly from beside him during one of his mental leakages. He turns his head and looks at the nearby computer screen. "Glycerol molecule," he says, looking at the molecular shape. "What _are_ you?" I come around to look and study the structure myself.

"What did you mean, 'I owe you'?" Molly asks and dad raises his eyes to watch John walk across the lab to the other side of the bench. "You said, 'I owe you.' You were muttering it while you were working."

Dad looks back into the microscope and dismisses her. "Nothing. Mental note."

Molly looks at him, concerned. "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." I snort and she closes her eyes in embarrassment. "No, sorry."

"Molly, _please_ don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

She cringes but continues. "When he was ... dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no-one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly ..." he warns sternly and I look away, realising where this is going.

"_You_ look sad ..." she continues, glancing towards John, "... you both do when you think he can't see you." I swallow and look over to John is sifting through pictures faxed over from the crime scene. How long can we continue pretending nothing is wrong when there may not be a light at the end of this tunnel? "Are you both okay?" I go to reassure her but she knows us too well. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you."

"But _you_ can see us," dad points out.

"I don't count," she says and I look over to her, taking in for the first time how lucky we are.

She's been there for us for as long as we've known her. Dad went uni with her and she helped him through a drug addiction then and I came to her again for help when he lost control a few years ago. She's always been there and she's had the patience of a saint no matter how many times she's been rebuffed. She's intellegent without being cocky, she's assertive but lacks confidence. We've been a real asset and yet she thinks we value her as nothing.

"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." She looks away, flinching and her miswording. "No, I just mean ... I mean if there's anything you need ..." She shakes her head. "It's fine."

Dad looks shaken as Molly turns away. It's clearly hitting home as much as it is with me how little we appreciate her. "What-what-what could I need from you?"

"Nothing," she shrugs nervously, turning back. "I dunno. You could probably say thank you, actually." She nods nervously but firmly.

"Thank you, Molly," I say softly, smiling sadly. Dad takes a moment more to process it.

"... Thank you?" He frowns and turns his head away, surprised as we all are, no doubt, to hear him say it.

Molly starts to walk towards the door. "I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" I shake my head but dad opens his mouth. Molly beats him to it. "It's okay, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll ..." he says, trying to make an effort now.

"I know you don't." She turns and walks away, leaving the room. Dad and I exchange a guilty look before he looks back into his microscope and I look at the structure on the screen.

"Sophie," John says, breaking my thoughts on Molly and drawing me back.

"Hmm?"

"This envelope that was in her trunk. There's another one." My head snaps up. I knew it wasn't a coincidence. John walks over to his jacket.

"What?"

"On our doorstep. Found it today." He pulls the envelope out of his pocket and compares it. "Yes, and look at that." He brings the envelope around the bench and hands it to me. "Look at that. Exactly the same seal."

I look inside briefly before tipping the contents gently onto the palm of my hand. "Breadcrumbs."

"Uh-huh," John agrees. "It was there when I got back."

"A little trace of breadcrumbs; hardback copy of fairy tales," I say, voicing my thoughts before it comes together and my eyes widen. "Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs."

"That's 'Hansel and Gretel'," John realises. "What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

"The sort that likes to boast," dad says, entering the conversation, "the sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me: 'all fairytales need a good old-fashioned villain'." Dad looks back into his microscope and adjusts. "The fifth substance: it's part of the tale."

"The witch's house," I say in realisation, looking back at the screen.

"What?" John asks as the final piece falls into place for me.

"The glycerol molecule," I say. "PGPR!"

"What's that?"

Dad leaps to his feet. "It's used in making chocolate," he explains, hurrying out the lab. I grin to myself as I follow him out.


	25. Chapter 25

We take a quick diversion to send some of our homeless network looking around and text a few others before heading off to Scotland Yard.

Lestrade meets us by the door of his department's office and hands dad a sheet of paper as we walk inside.

"This fax arrived an hour ago," he says and dad flips it over so we can read the print. A large handwritten note on the paper reads:

HURRY UP  
THEY'RE  
DYING!

Dad and I exchange glances before he passes the note over to John.

"What have you got for us?"

"Need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect," dad replies, handing the piece of paper we were using in the lap to Lestrade.

"Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation ..." he reads. "What the hell is this? Chocolate?"

"I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory," I say.

"We need to narrow that down," Lestrade groans. "A sweet factory with asphalt?"

"No. No-no-no," dad disagrees. "Too general. Need something more specific."

"Chalk," I suggest, "chalky clay – that's a far thinner band of geology." Dad nods and I visualise a map of London and mark out the areas fitting that terrain type.

"Brick dust?" Lestrade asks dad who has his eyes closed, clearly doing the same as me.

"Building site. Bricks from the 1950s," dad replies and Lestrade rubs his face in despair.

"There's _thousands_ of building sites in London."

"I've got people out looking," dad says, exasperated at the continued interruptions.

"So have I," Lestrade says defensively.

"Homeless network – faster than the police," dad says, smiling snidely. "Far more relaxed about taking bribes."

I notice Anderson listening at a nearby desk and he rolls his eyes at this. I shoot him a glare as dad's phone starts to trill a series of text alerts. He brandishes the phone triumphantly at Lestrade and I come over to look at the pictures.

He sifts through each of them before stopping at a picture of a close-up of some purple flowers.

"John," dad says, holding the phone out to show him the picture. "Rhododendron ponticum. It matches." I know nothing about geography and botany so I'm at a loss here. "Addlestone," he says a moment later.

"What?" Lestrade asks.

"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything." He turns and hurries out the office and John and I follow quickly behind him.

We race over to Addlestone with several police cars following and all of us head inside the large factory.

We all switch on our torches as we are plunged into darkness as Donovan begins to coordinate the police officers.

"You, look over there," she starts. "Look _everywhere_. Okay, spread out, please. _Spread out._"

Lestrade leads us and his team towards another part of the factory.

"Look in there," he says softly. "Quietly. _Quietly_."

As we head deeper into the factory, we reach a large, clear area littered with a number of empty sweet wrappers and a candle. Dad walks forward and touches the wick of the candle before drawing his hand quickly back.

"This was alight moments ago," he says before calling out loudly. "They're still here. Sweet wrappers," he says, dropping his voice again. "What's he been feeding you?" Dad picks up one of the wrappers and examines it more closely. "Hansel and Gretel." He holds the wrapper closer to the beam of his torch and sniffs the paper before touching it with the tip of his tongue and grimacing. He looks at the wrapper in startled realisation. "Mercury."

"What?"

"The papers: they're painted with mercury." John groans in response and dad continues. "Lethal. The more of the stuff they ate ..."

"It was killing them," John says.

"But it's not enough to kill them on its own," I say, frowning.

"Taken in large enough quantities, eventually it _would_kill them," dad explains. "He didn't need to be there for the execution. Murder by remote control. He could be a thousand miles away. The hungrier they got, the more they ate ... the faster they died." Dad grins. "Neat."

"Sherlock," John warns reprovingly.

"Over here!" Donovan calls out and we run in the direction of her voice. "I've got you," she says softly to the huddled children. "Don't worry."

The girl is taken to Lestrade's office for questioning and we have to wait outside while Lestrade and Donovan go in.

Dad gets restless and begins pacing around outside for ten minutes before they come out.

"Right, then," she says sarcastically with a hint of bitterness. "The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn ..."

"Now, remember," Lestrade warns, giving dad a serious look, "she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to ..."

"... not be myself."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Might be helpful."

Dad looks around to me and just about holds back an eye roll as he folds down his coat collar. I lead them inside where the girl is sitting at the table, looking down as the female liaison officer strokes her arm reassuringly.

"Claudette, I ..." Dad starts but gets no further because the girl lifts her head, takes one look at him and begins to scream in terror. My eyes widen in confusion and look at dad. "No-no, I know it's been hard for you ..." She continues screaming and scrambles to get away while pointing at him. "Claudette, listen to me ..."

"Out," Lestrade shouts. "_Get out!_" He grabs dad's arm and bundles him out the room as the girl continues to scream. I follow behind him and we head away from the office to reconvene.

"Makes no sense," I say, shaking my head.

"The kid's traumatised," Lestrade explains. "Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper."

"So what's she said?"

"Hasn't uttered another syllable," Donovan replies.

"And the boy?"

"No, he's unconscious; still in intensive care."

Flickering lights in the building opposite draw my attention as all of the lights come on at once, revealing three spray painted letters painted onto the windows.

I O U

The lights go out on that floor seconds later and dad and I exchange uneasy glances.

"Well, don't let it get to you," Lestrade says to dad, trying to lighten the mood. "_I_ always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do most people. Come on." He turns and heads out, followed out by John. We go to follow him but Donovan stays behind for a moment.

"Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It's really amazing," she says.

"Thank you," dad replies but Donovan continues pointedly.

"Unbelievable."

Dad hesitates momentarily before we continue on, heading outside to meet John.

"Ah," he says as we reach him, raising a hand to hail an approaching taxi. "You okay?"

"Thinking," dad dismisses as the taxi pulls up at the kerb. "This is _my_ cab. You two get the next one."

"Why?" I ask.

"You might talk." I raise my hands in protest but he gets in and closes the door and the taxi pulls away. John stares after him in disbelief, then sighs.


	26. Chapter 26

John and I sit in silence in the cab as I think of what Donovan said. She thinks dad's fraud. She's always been sceptical of our reasoning but now it's almost as though she believes we were involved in the childrens' disappearance. The girl screaming must have only added fuel to that fire. All is needed is that little seed of doubt and then the whole house of cards come tumbling down.

Three gun shots echo through the air and the cab pulls to a sudden stop. I break from my thoughts as I see dad crouched by the side of the road, the receiving end of the gun shots lying dead beside him.

"Sherlock!" John calls, jumping out and running over. I reach him before John does and help him up.

The ambulance arrives shortly after ringing and I stand beside dad as the body is wheeled away into the back. He studies his hands fretfully as John walks away from the ambulance.

"That ... it's him," he says, slightly stunned and I frown in confusion. "It's him. Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster lives two doors down from us."

"He died because I shook his hand," dad states.

"What d'you mean?"

"He saved my life but he couldn't touch me. Why?" He storms off and we follow behind him.

"Sherlock, wait!" John calls a little way down the road and dad's pace slows a little. "There's five of them in total - can't rember all their names. Four top assassins living in and around Baker Street, don't you think that's a little coincidental.

"No such thing," dad dismisses but by the look on his face it's clear he's processing it.

When we get back to the flat, he goes straight to his laptop which is still on the table from this morning.

"Four assassins living right on our doorstep," dad says, sitting down at the table while John looks out the window. I stand behind dad and look over his shoulder. "They didn't come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive. I've got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me ..."

"... the others kill them before they can get it," John finishes and dad grunts in agreement, calling up the local Wi-Fi networks.

"All of the attention is focussed on me," dad says. Judging by the strength of signal of each of them, all five are located within the flat. Five Wi-Fi cameras feeding back surveillance to the assassins.

"There's a surveillance web closing in on us right now," I voice and dad nods.

"So what have you got that's so important?" John asks but dad gazes into the distance for a moment before reaching the same conclusion as me.

"We need to ask about the dusting."

Dad goes downstairs and drags Mrs Hudson up to the flat. Judging by the fact she's wearing her nightdress and dressing gown, he caught her on her way to bed. As soon as he's escorted her up, he joins me checking for dust on all the furniture.

"Precise details: in the last week, what's been cleaned?"

"Well, Tuesday I did your lino ..."

"No, in here, _this_ room," dad stresses. "This is where we'll find it - any break in the dust line. You can put back anything but dust." He lifts his dusty finger in the air and twirls it around dramatically in the air. "Dust is eloquent."

"What's he on about?" Mrs Hudson whispers and John shakes his head in equal confusion. I jump over dad's chair and start climbing on the furniture around the bookshelf so I can reach the top. I smile as I find one of the cameras and pull it from it's place.

"Cameras," I say, triumphantly, holding it up. "We're being watched."

"What? Cameras?" she cringes. Here? I'm in my nightie!" As she hurries out, the doorbell rings. John follows her down to get the door as we continue to look around for the other cameras.

I hear John talking with Lestrade downstairs before he leads him upstairs.

"No, Inspector," dad says as Lestrade walks in, not turning around and maintaining his focus as he pulls a second camera out.

"What?"

"The answer's no," he repeats, stepping down from his mounted position, camera in hand.

"But you haven't heard the question!" Lestrade protests.

"You want to take me to the station," dad says and my mouth opens subconsciously in realisation. Donovan must have brought her suspicions to Lestrade. "Just saving you the trouble of asking." He walks closer and Lestrade pulls in a breath.

"Sherlock ..."

"The scream?" dad interrupts.

"Yeah," Lestrade admits.

"Who was it?" I demand. "Donovan? I bet it was Donovan."

"Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping?" dad continues, ignoring me. "Ah, Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in her head; that little nagging sensation. You're going to have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home ..." he reaches forward and briefly places his index fingertip on Lestrade's forehead between his eyes, "... there."

"Will you come?" Lestrade asks, almost pleading, hoping not to make this more of a fuss than it needs to be.

Dad turns around and sits back down at the laptop, beginning to type. "One photograph - that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch." He picks up the camera again and studies it for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Lestrade's. "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play. Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."

Sighing, Lestrade exchanges a brief look with John before turning and heading back down the stairs.

Dad brings the live footage up on the screen as John walks back across the room and moves towards the windows.

"They'll be deciding," dad says after a moment.

"Deciding?" John asks.

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?"

"Standard procedure."

"Should have gone with him," John sighs. "People'll think ..."

"I don't care what people think."

"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong," he challenges.

"No, that would just make _them_ stupid or wrong."

"Sherlock," John says, turning around angrily. "I don't want the world believing you're ..." He breaks off we both turn to look at him. Dad and John lock eyes for a tense moment.

"That I am what?"

"A fraud." John finishes and dad rolls his eyes and sits back in his seat, letting it go.

"You're worried they're right," I say in realisation, eyes wide.

"What?"

"You're worried they're right about him."

"No."

"You do realise that if Sherlock's found to be a fake that I'll be next, don't you?! That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

John turns away and looks out the window again. "No I'm not."

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too," I say before slamming my hand onto the table in fury. "Can't you _see_ what's going on?"

John meets my eye for a moment. I can handle Anderson, Donovan - even Lestrade - believing we're fakes but not John. I thought John knew better.

"No, I know you're for real," he says, turning back to the window.

"A hundred percent?" I challenge.

"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time?" he says gesturing towards dad. Studying him for a moment and concluding he's telling to truth, I let out a small laugh.

"Fair," I grin.


	27. Chapter 27

John gets a call a little while later and I watch anxiously as he lowers the phone and switches it off.

"So, still got _some_ friends on the Force," John says. "It's Lestrade. Says they're all coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."

Mrs Hudson knocks on the door with her customary "Ooh-ooh!", still dressed in her nightwear. "Oh, sorry, am I interrupting?" she asks, clearly sensing the tension. Dad rolls his eyes and looks away so she turns her attention to John. "Some chap delivered a parcel. I forgot. Marked 'Perishable' – I had to sign for it." John takes the jiffy bag from her and I immediately notice the red seal and walk over to see. "Funny name. German, like the fairytales."

Dad joins me as John pulls out the contents as multiple sirens approach outside. John holds out the gingerbread man so we can see it properly and I notice it's a strange colour having been burned.

"Burnt to a crisp," dad voices, calling back to what Moriarty had said about burning him. This is it. The cars have pulled up outside and the doors slam shut as they start getting out.

"What does it mean?" John asks as the doorbell rings and they begin pounding on the door knocker. Somebody's obviously aware we have a troubling relationship with doorbells.

"Police!" they call and dad and I exchange looks.

"I'll go," Mrs Hudson says quietly, turning and hurrying down the stairs as they continue to knock.

"Evening, Mrs Hudson," Lestrade says calmly as I hear several people enter downstairs.

"Sherlock!" Donovan calls up the stairs. "We need to talk to you!"

John stiffens, army mode clicking in as he puts the gingerbread man back in the envelope and putting it on the table before heading out of the flat to confront them.

"Don't barge in like that!" Mrs Hudson calls angrily as we start to hear feet bounding up the stairs. I take in a deep breath and begin putting my coat and scarf on, and dad does the same beside me. It's better to have a picture of us being calmly taken away as opposed to one of us resisting.

John is blocking the stairs to stop them going any further. "Have you got a warrant?" he demands. "Have you?"

"Leave it, John," Lestrade replies softly.

"Really!" Mrs Hudson protests, following them up. "Manners!"

They push past John and soon one armed officer is cuffing dad, another one standing behind me, holding my hands together behind my back but clearly I haven't pissed off enough people to warrant handcuffs.

"Sherlock Holmes and Sophia Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping," Lestrade says.

John gestures towards dad while looking at Lestrade while the officer pulls dad's left hand behind him to cuff the other wrist. "He's not resisting," John protests angrily.

"It's all right, John," dad says softly but John shakes his head.

"He's not resisting," he says again. "No, it's _not_ all right. This is ridiculous."

"Get them downstairs now," Lestrade orders the two officers and we're marched out the room. Mrs Hudson stands by the door, nearly in tears.

"It'll be okay, Mrs H," I say reassuringly. "We'll get this sorted." She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder but I'm pushed past her.

He lets me walk down the stairs alone and we meet what must be the Chief Super Intendant at the bottom. I glare at him and he watches me pass, his lip curling into a sneer.

The officers lead us outside and make us lean up against the police car.

Not long after, I watch the Chief Super Intendant walking out from the flats holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose.

"Are you all right, sir?" an officer asks and I smirk as John is slammed up against the car beside us.

"Joining us?" I ask, an eyebrow raised

"Yeah," he nods. "Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Super Intendant."

I let out a snort of laughter as an armed officer unlocks the cuff on dad's right hand and transfers it to John's right wrist. I am still without handcuffs and I'm relieved. It's going to make it a lot easier to run away.

"Hmm," dad says, looking down at their joined wrists. "Bit awkward, this."

"Huh," John replies. "No-one to bail us."

"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape," dad responds and John looks up in surprise.

"What?" John says through the crackle of the radio.

An idea hits me and I lean through the open window of the car we're leaning against and press the talk button.

The officer behind us is wearing an earpiece and is close enough to produce a strong feedback, causing him to double over in pain and pull out his earpiece. Dad makes the most of the distraction and reaches in behind and grabs the officer's gun. John's hand is pulled up as dad raises the gun and points it at the nearest officers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" dad says and Lestrade looks exasperated. Nobody reacts and so dad raises the gun skywards and fires it twice. "_NOW_ would be good!" He lowers the gun again, aiming it back at the police.

"Do as he says!" Lestrade calls. Either part of him wants us to get away or he is starting to question whether we really are as dangerous as everyone is claiming. I'd like to hope it's the former.

"Just-just so you're aware, the gun is his idea," John says loudly in defence. "I'm just a ... you know ..." Dad transfers the pistol to his right hand and promptly aims it at John's head.

"... my hostage," dad finishes loudly and John gasps.

"Hostage!" John cries quietly under his breath. "Yes, that works - _that_ works!"

We start backing away towards the corner where an alleyway cuts through Baker Street, the gun still raised to John's head. Once we're safely around the corner, dad lowers the gun.

"So what now?" John asks.

"Doing what Moriarty wants – I'm becoming a fugitive," dad replies. "Run." He turns and begins to race down the road, dragging John behinf him. I run after him, quickly catching up being completely unrestrained. "Take my hand," dad instructs John as he loops the loose chain around his wrist.

"Now people will _definitely_ talk," John protests but grabs dad's hand anyway. Sirens are approaching from in front so dad swerves to the left, dropping the pistol in the process. "The gun!"

"Leave it!" dad cries as he shoves John down the side alley. The police car goes straight past and we keep running. Halfway down, we reach some high railings blocking our way. I run forward, jumping on top of a dustbin and vaulting over the top of the fence before landing easily the other side. Dad does the same but John is left behind and is dragged upwards and slammed against the railings as dad lands the other side.

"Sherlock, wait!" John cries, reaching through the railings with his free hand and grabbing dad's coat, pulling him closer and glaring at him. "We're going to need to coordinate," he says sternly.

Dad assesses their situation and immediately works out a plan.

"Go to your right," dad instructs.

"Huh?"

"Go to your right." Dad reaches up and gets the chain over one of the spikes at the top of the railing. "Climb onto the bin and jump over."

"I've got it," John replies, struggling to climb on top of the bin. The chain goes taunt and dad's face smashes against the railings. John jumps over and lands well before dad adjusts the cuffs and we set off again.

Reaching a T-junction, dad turns to the right, then immediately brakes and ducks back again as a police car races past the end of the alley. We take a moment to catch our breath against the wall.

"Everybody _wants_ to believe it – that's what makes it so clever," dad says, looking at John. "A lie that's preferable to the truth." He looks away again, becoming bitter. "All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No-one feels inadequate – Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man."

"And Sophia Holmes is just another snotty teenager," I sigh. Going back go school is going to be fun.

"What about Mycroft?" John suggests. "He could help us."

Dad moves forward again and drags him to the other side of the alley before looking down to the left.

"A big family reconciliation?" dad asks. "Now's not really the moment." He spins quickly around, dragging John in a circle around him as he looks back the way we came, judging the best way to go. I look down the left hand side and spot a shadow move backwards against the wall.

"Sherlock," I call quietly and nod subtly in the direction of the figure. "We're being followed."

"I _knew_ we couldn't outrun the police," John says.

"That's not the police," dad disagrees. "It's one of my new neighbours from Baker Street. Let's see if he can give us some answers." He breaks out in the opposite direction from where the man is watching us and I follow. Running to the next corner, we flatten ourselves against the wall as dad looks around the corner. There doesn't seem to be any sign of the police. Dad presses himself back against the wall again.

"Where are we going?" John asks.

"We're going to jump in front of that bus," dad says indicating to the double decker heading down the road towards us.

"What?!"

Dad's already on the move, dragging John out onto the road. I run out with them and stop just in front of the bus. I side-glance towards the alley as the bus approaches. The assassin charges into the road and throws himself at us, knocking us all over onto the pavement the other side. The bus goes by, blaring it's horn at us. Before the assassin can recover, dad sits up and drags the man's own gun from his jeans, then cocks and points it at him.

"Tell me what you want from me." The man stares at him wide-eyed but doesn't speak. He's clearly scared that if he does he'll meet the same fate as the Albanian. Dad moves the muzzle closer to him. "_Tell_ me."

"He left it at your flat," he says at last.

"Who?"

"Moriarty."

"What?" Dad asks as we start getting to our feet but he doesn't lower the gun.

"The computer keycode."

"Of course," dad says in realisation. "He's selling it – the programme he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around." Three gunshots ring out and the assassin reels and drops to the ground. Dad stares up in the direction the bullets came from, but the sound alerts the police and they start heading in our direction. We race off again before ducking into an open doorway as another police car drives past the end of the road. We take a moment to catch their breath.

"It's a game-changer," I say. "It's a key – it can break into _any_ system and it's sitting in our flat right now. I'd give anything to have that! That's why he left that message telling everyone where to come. 'Get Sherlock'. We need to get back into the flat and search."

"CID'll be camped out," John points out before looking at dad. "Why plant it on you?"

"It's another subtle way of smearing my name," he replies. "Now I'm best pals with all those criminals."

John picks up a newspaper from a pile beside us.

"Yeah, well, have you seen this?" he asks, showing us a copy of 'The Sun'. At the top right hand corner, the heading promises an exposé on dad by Kitty Riley. That bitch. Looks like she's got the big break she was waiting for. "A kiss and tell. Some bloke called Rich Brook." I frown. Rich Brook. It might be awfully coincidental, but Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach. The case that made our name. It has to be Moriarty. "Who is he?" John asks.

"I know who we can ask," I say, digging into my jacket pocket and pulling out the business card Riley ever so helpfully gave to me.


	28. Chapter 28

She's not at home when we arrive so we let ourselves in and wait in the darkness of her living room for her to return.

We don't have to wait long before I hear the call pull up outside. The door shuts and I hear her walk towards the house. Opening the door, she walks along the hall just outside put notices the door we left ajar. The lights come on revealing us and she gaps slightly in surprise.

"Too late to go on the record?" I ask, handing dad a hairpin from my hair so he can unpick the lock of the handcuffs.

"Congratulations," dad says to Riley. "The truth about Sherlock Holmes." He frees his hand and gives it to John for him to do his. "The scoop that everybody wanted and you got it. Bravo!"

"I gave your daughter the opportunity," she shrugs, turning to me. "I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so ..."

"And then, behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans," I say rolling my eyes. "How _utterly_ convenient. Who is 'Brook'?" Riley shakes her head, refusing to say anything. "Oh, come on, Kitty. No-one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone. There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés; those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your dictaphone. How do you know that you can trust him? A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pockets. What were his credentials?"

The front door opens again outside and someone walks in through to the hall. Riley rises to her feet, looking concerned as the living room door opens. My eyes widen as Moriarty walks through, unshaven and hair messy wearing casual clothes and carrying a shopping bag.

"Darling, they didn't have any ground coffee so I just got normal ..." He raises his eyes and stares in terror at the sight of dad before dropping the shopping bag and backing away until he bumps into the wall behind him. "You said that they wouldn't find me here," he says, voice trembling. "You said that I'd be safe here"

"You _are_ safe, Richard," Kitty reassures him. "I'm a witness. He wouldn't harm you in front of witnesses."

John points to Moriarty face full of a mixture of shock and fury. "So _that's_ your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?!"

"Of _course_ he's Richard Brook," Riley replies. "There _is_ no Moriarty. There never _has_ been."

"What are you talking about?" I demand.

"Look him up," Riley says. "Rich Brook – an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."

I glare at Moriarty who's holding his hands up in protection. "Doctor Watson, I know you're a good man," he says, voice shaking." He backs into the corner, appearing terrified under John's glare. "Don't ... don't h... Don't hurt me."

"No, you are Moriarty!" I say, losing it. "He's Moriarty! We've _met_, remember? _You were gonna blow us up!__"_

Moriarty puts his hands briefly over his face then holds them in front of himself again, sounding as if he's crying in fear.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice shaking. "I'm sorry." He gestures towards dad. "He paid me. I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work. I'm sorry, okay?"

"He paid you to abduct his daughter and friend and hold us hostage?" I demand, eyebrow raised. "Funnily enough, I don't believe you."

"Sherlock, you'd better ... explain ... because I am not getting this," John says, breathing heavily and looking at dad.

"Oh _I'll_ ... I'll be doing the explaining – in print," Riley says, handing John a folder. "It's all here – conclusive proof." John flicks through the papers inside and I glance over his shoulder at them. Riley turns to dad. "You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis."

"Invented him?" John says, upset.

"Mmm-hmm. Invented all the _crimes_, actually – and to cap it all, you made up a master villain."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" I spit.

Riley points at Moriarty. "_Ask_ him. He's right here! Just ask him. Tell him, Richard."

"Look, for God's sake," John cries, "this man was on _trial_!"

"Yes ..." Riley acknowledges, pointing at dad, "... and you paid him; paid him to take the rap. Promised you'd rig the jury." Dad stares at her silently as she continues. "Not exactly a West End role, but I'll bet the money was good." She walks over to Moriarty and puts her arm around him comfortingly. "But not so good he didn't want to sell his story."

Moriarty plaintively at me, putting his hands together pleadingly. "I _am_ sorry. I _am_. I am sorry."

"So this is the story that you're gonna publish?" I say in disbelief. It sounds like a pretty poor cop-out to me. "The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty's an actor?!"

"He _knows_ I am," Moriarty protests. "I have proof. I have proof. Show her, Kitty! Show her something!"

"Yeah, _show_ me something," I challenge. Riley walks across to her bag and Moriarty puts his hands over his face again. He pulls his hands away from his eyes a little and looks towards me and for a brief moment, James Moriarty reveals his true self and he smiles triumphantly at me. Riley takes out a folder and hands it over.

"I'm on TV," he says, slipping Richard Brook back on. "I'm on kids' TV. I'm The Storyteller." I flick through and shake my head at the obviously photoshopped articles. It's a massive fraud. "I'm ... I'm The Storyteller. It's on DVD." I pass it over to John, disgusted. "Just tell them," Moriarty pleads. "It's all coming out now. It's all over." His voice becomes frantic. "Just tell them. Just tell them. _Tell them!__" _Dad bares his teeth and starts walking towards him. "It's all over now ... NO!"  
He backs away from dad and up a short flight of stairs towards the bedroom on the upper level of the flat. His eyes are wide and terrified._ "_Don't you touch me! Don't you lay a finger on me! "

"Stop it," dad shouts, furiously, losing his composure. "_Stop it NOW!__"_

Moriarty turns and bolts up the stairs. "Don't hurt me!"

We chase after him. "Don't let him get away!" I cry.

"Leave him alone!" Riley protests.

Moriarty runs into the bathroom on the other side of the bedroom. He grins manically at me and dad, unseen by John and Riley, before slamming the door. Dad runs to the door and struggles momentarily to open it, then shoves it open but Moriarty has already disappeared through the open window opposite. There's a crash outside as if he's landed on top of a dustbin and I run towards the window and look. John catches up to us and dad stops him following.

"No, no, no. He'll have back-up."

We head back towards the stairs but Riley stands in our way, slowing us down. "D'you know what, Sophia Holmes? I look at you now and I can _read_ you," she says, purposely repeating my words from court. I stop as she gets into my face. "And you ... repel ... _me_."

We push past her and head out the door and onto the street. John stops while dad paces back and forth in the middle of the road. "Can he do that?" he asks. "Completely change his identity; make you the criminal?"

"He's got my whole life story," dad replies. "That's what you do when you sell a big lie; you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."

"Your word against his."

"He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours," I add, shaking my head.

"There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to ..." Dad stops dead. I look up, concerned.

"Sherlock?"

"Something I need to do," he replies, sounding distant.

"What?" I ask. "Can I help?"

"No – on my own," he replies before briskly walking away. John sighs and looks back down at the file of papers. I look back at them and narrow my eyes in realisation. There's only so many people who knows that much about dad's history. It wasn't me and it wasn't John.

"We need to see Mycroft. Now."


	29. Chapter 29

I'm worried now dad's gone off on his own. He wasn't in the best state of mind when he left and I'm especially nervous with the whole 'Final Problem' thing looming. I'd promised Sam and Dean a phone call if anything was to start happening so as we head over to Mycroft's Diogenes Club I phone Sam.

"Hey Sam it's me," I say as he picks up.

"Sophie, hi!" he replies. "You alright? How's Sherlock?"

"Not great actually Sam," I admit. "It's why I rang. Everything's gone a bit pear shaped. Have you seen the news?"

"No I haven't," he says and I can hear him typing at the other end. "Jeez Soph, this is bad. You're fugitives?"

"Yeah, it's Moriarty. Dad's gone off on his own and I'm worried we might be getting somewhere near what I was talking to you about when we last saw each other."

"You think?" Sam asks. "Okay well don't worry. Cas and Dean are out at the moment but I'll give them a call and we'll be over okay? Don't do anything without us. Do you want us to meet you at Baker Street?"

"Yeah," I reply. "Give us an hour or two first. We've got some stuff to take care of."

"Yeah no worries. See you later."

"Bye," I say before hanging up. John had pretended not to be listening as I was talking but I can sense he was. I realise we haven't discussed the possibility that this is what it is. "I wasn't sure until now that this was the beginning of the end," I admit and he looks over. "I should have said something sooner but it was just something Moriarty said in passing at the flat after his trial. Sherlock's 'final problem'. I'm worried he's gone off to finish it."

"By 'finish it' you mean..." he starts and I nod. "Is this to do with that book that you got for Christmas then?"

"I think so. The Doctor warned us not to read ahead so I'm worried I might read something I shouldn't and seal his fate."

"But at the same time you could stop it from happening," John nods, sensing my dilemma.

"Exactly, which is why we need to speak to Mycroft. It seems Uncle Dearest has been feeding Moriarty information."

I lead John to the Stranger's Room inside the Diogenes Club but it would appear he's been in here before, probably on one of the occasions Mycroft has abducted him from the streets.

He isn't inside but I happen to know there's a pretty big foreign deal being sealed tonight so he's going to return here sometime for some quiet. We take our seats opposite his desk and I thumb through the file again as we wait for him, annoyed at Moriarty for doing this to us; annoyed at Riley for believing these obviously photoshopped documents; annoyed at Mycroft for giving this information away and annoyed at dad for going for this on his own.

"She has _really_ done her homework," I say as I hear the door open again behind us, "Miss Riley – things that only someone close to Sherlock could know."

"Ah," he says slowly, closing the door softly behind him.

"Have you _seen_ Sherlock's address book lately? Two names: yours and mine, and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me nor John."

Mycroft walks across the room to face us. "Sophie ..." he tries.

"So how does it work, then, your relationship?" I demand, interrupting. "D'you go out for a coffee now and then, eh, you and Jim?" He sits down and goes to speak but I interrupt him again.

"Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

"I never inten... I never dreamt ..."

"So _this_ is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it?" John asks Mycroft, interrupting again as he steps in. "'Watch his back, 'cause I've made a mistake.'"

"How did you meet him?" I ask him, trying to retain my composure.

"People like him: we know about them; we watch them," he says, drawing in a long breath. I roll my eyes: I know this already. He rethinks and skips the lecture. "But James Moriarty ... the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket the ultimate weapon: a keycode. A few lines of computer code that could unlock _any_ door."

"And you abducted him to try and find the keycode?" John asks.

"Interrogated him for weeks," Mycroft admits.

"And?"

"He wouldn't play along. He just sat there, staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up ..." he gestures to himself, "_I_ could get him to talk. Just a little, but ..." He trails off and I finish the sentence grimly.

"... in return you had to offer him Sherlock's life story. So one big lie – Sherlock and I are frauds – but people _will_ swallow it because the rest of it's true." I shake my head in disgust. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And _you_ have given him the perfect ammunition." I glare at him and he's unable to meet my eyes. I get up to storm out.

"Sophie..." he calls me back and I turn around. Mycroft looks up at me. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, please ..." I say, shaking my head in disbelief as tears sting my eyes. "That is nowhere near good enough."

"I know," he says sadly, lowering his eyes again. "Tell him, would you?" I walk out and John follows quickly after me.


	30. Chapter 30

Dawn begins to break as we step outside and I realise we must have been on the run for almost twelve hours now. My phone beeps and I look down to see dad has sent me a text.

'At Barts. Send John.  
Go home and phone John telling him to come back.

SH'

I frown, confused.

'Why?

\- SH'

Dad doesn't respond. Seems strange and I definitely don't like the sound of it. But Sam and Dean and possibly Cas will be waiting at home if anything is wrong.

"He's at Bart's," I say, slipping my phone back into my jacket pocket. "You go ahead and I'll go back and meet Sam and Dean."

"You sure?" he asks and I nod.

"Yeah, won't be long." As we approach the road, I hail at cab and open its door. "See you later."

"Bye," he says and I go to shut the door but he stops it. "Soph - you know I won't let anything happen to him, don't you."

"Yeah, I know," I reply, nodding and he smiles and closes the door behind me. "Baker Street please."

I climb in through the back of the flat, anxious not to disturb Mrs Hudson. It's best to keep her out of this, especially if Moriarty is moving onto the next stage of his master plan.

"What are you doing?" a monotone voice asks and I look up, one leg still dangling out the kitchen window.

"Hey Cas," I smile, cocking the other leg over and jumping off the kitchen cabinet. "Thank's for coming."

"Hey shortie!" Dean says, emerging from out behind the living room door and gripping me in a big bear hug. "How you holding up."

"Good," I lie grinning as Sam steps around. "Listen guys, I don't think we have long. Has anyone managed to get hold of the Doctor?"

"Guy's gone radio silent," Dean says, shaking his head. "He'll turn up when we need him."

"Let's hope so. I've got to call John over and then I think we're all good to go."

They nod and I pull my phone out and dial John's number as I move into my room for some privacy. I clear my throat; the easiest way to get him back is to let him think I've been attacked.

"Good morning, is that Doctor Watson," I ask as he picks up.

"Yeah, speaking," he replies, sounding tired.

"My name is Helen Smith, I'm a paramedic with central London ambulance," I continue. "We've tried contacting her father but he hasn't responded. I'm sorry to say Miss Holmes has been attacked."

"Er, what?" he asks, shocked, sobering up immediately. "What happened? Is she okay?"

"She was shot in the chest on her way back home. Are you free now to collect her things while we take her to hospital?"

"Oh my God," John says, sounding panicked. "Right, yes, I'm coming." He switches the phone off and I end the call. Hopefully that gave dad enough time to do whatever it is he had to do.

"Everything okay?" Sam asks as I come back out.

"Yeah, all sorted. He's on his way over now."

"Do you know how this is going down?" Dean asks.

"No idea," I say, rubbing my head. "Moriarty said he owed Sherlock a fall -" Of course, I've been so dense! I walk quickly over to the table and find the copy of the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes and flick to the 'Final Problem'.

"What is it?" Sam asks, a hand on my shoulder as I tense and freeze. He takes the book out of my hand and reads it himself.

He's going to kill himself, that's how it ends. It ends with him falling to his death. And he's already picked where it's going to happen. That's why he called John back. He wanted to say goodbye but knew I'd figure out what was happening and stop him. My job is to distract John long enough that dad can kill himself.


	31. Chapter 31

*Sherlock's POV*

"What is it?" I ask as John comes off the phone.

"Paramedics," he replies. "Sophie - she's been shot."

"What?" I say, unconcerned. "How?"

Despite knowing Sophie for almost two years now, he still doesn't recognise her when she's putting on a voice down the phone.

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract ..." he replies frantically. "Jesus. _Jesus_. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." He turns towards the door.

"You go," I say nonchalantly. "I'm busy."

John turns back around looking appalled. "Busy?"

"Thinking. I need to think."

"You need to ...? Doesn't she mean _anything_ to you?" His tone turns to fury. "She's dying ..." He flails a hand in front of him in disbelief. "You _machine._" John looks down, shaking his head. "Sod this. Sod this," he says, starting back towards the door. "You stay here if you want, on your own."

"Alone is what I have," I argue. "Alone protects me."

John opens the door and looks back at me angrily. "No. _Friends_ protect people." He storms out the door and I watch him go. That will move him out the picture for a while, letting me do what needs to be done.

As if on cue, my phone trills a text alert and I take it out of my pocket anf read the message.

'I'm waiting...  
JM'

Taking a deep breath, I put my coat back on and head upstairs to the roof.

I had to say goodbye. If Sophie had come, she would have realised what I was about to do and try to stop me but this needs to be done.

As I reach the roof, the first thing I hear is the song 'Stayin' Alive' playing and as I open the door I see Moriarty sat, sharply dressed in a suit and overcoat, on the raised ledge at the end of the roof.

"Ah," he says, not looking up. "Here we are at last - you and me, Sherlock, and our problem - the final problem." He holds the phone up higher. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" He angrily switches the music off and holds his hand out flat with the palm down and skims it through the air. "It's just ... _staying_." He pulls his hand back and briefly sinks his head into ut as I begin to pace around. "All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have _you_. Because I've beaten you." I turn my head in disagreement as he continues. "And you know what? In the end it was easy." I stop pacing as Moriarty's tone changes to quiet disappointment. "It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out _you're_ ordinary just like all of them." He lowers his head again as he rubs his face before looking up at me. "Ah well." He stands up and walks closer, beginning to pace around me slowly. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Richard Brook," I reply as an answer. It took me longer than it should, I would bet Sophie got it immediately.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."

"Of course."

"Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach," I explain, "the case that made my name."

"Just tryin' to have some fun," he says in a mock American accent and I tap my fingers in the rhythm he gave in the flat. "Good. You got that too."

"Beats like digits," I say. Again, it's something I should have told Sophie. She would have given anything for this code. I didn't want to risk her life in doing it. "Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head - a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."

"Yes, but now that it's up here," I say, gesturing to my head, "I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."

He looks at me for a moment before turning away, looking disappointed. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy," he says, burying his head in his hands. "This is too easy." He lowers his hands and turns back to me. "There _is_ no key, DOOFUS! Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless." I can't hide the confusion on my face. It doesn't make sense. Why do this at all if there was no code? "You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed." He turns away and lumbers across the roof, making his voice sound moronic as he speaks. "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

"But the rhythm ..."

"'Partita number one'," he cries. "Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."

"But then how did ..."

"Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" He turns and spreads his arms wide. "Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness - you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building - nice way to do it."

My attention is drawn back in by his words. "Do it?" I ask, bewildered. "Do - do what?" I realise a second later. "Yes, of course. My suicide."

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud'," he says. "I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales."

I wander over to the edge of the roof and look over the side. Sophie never liked heights. I'm glad she's not here to see this.

Moriarty walks over and joins me, looking over the side. "And pretty Grimm ones too."


	32. Chapter 32

*Sophie's POV *

The door bursts open downstairs and I hear a conversation between him and Mrs Hudson downstairs before he takes the stairs two at a time. As he reaches the top, I stand in the doorway and he recoils in surprise.

"Jesus..." he cries. "Sophie, are you okay?"

"Not really," I say, stepping back out the way to reveal the Hunters. "We need to get to Bart's pronto."

"I just..." he starts and realisation crosses his face. "Shit."

I wheel around and face Cas. "Do you mind taking us to Bart's please Cas."

We hold onto the angel and there's a flutter of wings before I land, slightly uneasily, in front of the building.

"It's as far as I can go," he says, looking up at the hospital. "There's some kind of warding inside which is stopping me from going any further."

"It might be as far as we need to go," I say grimly, looking up.


	33. Chapter 33

*Sherlock's POV*

I look away from the edge and turn to face Moriarty once more.

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."

"Oh, just kill yourself," he replies, sounding wearily exasperated. "It's a lot less effort." I turn away, thinking this through as I begin pacing around, buying time. "Go on. For me." He changes his tone into a high-pitched squeal. "Pleeeeeease?"

I reach out in a sudden movement and grab him by the collar before spinning him around so I'm holding him out over the drop. Unperturbed, he gazes back at me with interest. "You're insane."

Moriarty blinks. "You're just getting that now?"

As a reward for his sarcasm, I shove him further over the edge. All it would take is for me to let go and all our problems would he solved.

He whoops triumphantly, as one would at a theme park on a roller-coaster. He's enjoying it.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive," he says and I frown, unsure of what he means. His tone changes and becomes more savage. "Your friends will die if you don't."

"Sophie," I say, voice shaking.

"Not just Sophie, _everyone_" he grins with a delighted smile.

"John."

"_Everyone_."

"Mrs Hudson."

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now."

No, they can't. I hadn't factored that in. I had hoped that if I kept them out of this than they would be saved. There's no other way around this.

I pull Moriarty back onto the building and push him away. He creeps forward, putting himself in my face. "Unless my people see you jump."

What have I done? There's no way around this. I had made plans - copious plans. Enough to get me out alive. But none of them will work unless they see me jump.

Moriarty smiles triumphantly. "You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless ..."

"... unless I kill myself," I finish, "complete your story."

He nods and smiles ecstatically. "You've gotta admit that's sexier."

"And I die in disgrace," I say, rapidly trying to think of another way out.

"Of _course_. That's the _point_ of this." He looks over the side before looking back up. "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop." He rolls his head from side to side on his neck. "Go on."

I walk past him slowly and step onto the ledge.

"I _told_ you how this ends."

As I look down, my breath becomes more rapid and shaky. I had a plan before, and now I don't.

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. _I'm_ certainly not gonna do it."

"Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy?" I plead, glancing down at Moriarty. "Please?"

He looks disappointed at my 'ordinary' request but obliges. "Of course." I look back over the city as he walks away, my breath still shallow and nervous.

Something clicked when he was talking - something he let slip and went unnoticed while my emotions impeded my vision. What was it? I think back and a small smile creeps out. There might still be another way out. I begin to chuckle, relief flooding back in.

"What?" he spits, sounding livid. I continue to laugh. "What is it?"

I spin around on the ledge, smiling at him as he glares back.

"What did I miss?" he demands.

I hop down off the ledge and walk closer to him. "'_You're_ not going to do it.'," I say, repeating his words. "So the killers _can_ be called off, then - there's a recall code or a word or a number." I start to circle him, the power transferring to me now. "I don't have to die ..." I change my voice to become sing-song, "... if I've got you."

"Oh!" he laughs, sounding relieved. "You think you can _make_ me stop the order? You think _you_ can make me do that?"

"Yes," I answer confidently. "So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" I say, feeling my power slipping already. "I am you - prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

Moriarty shakes his head slowly. "Naah. You _talk_ big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary - you're on the side of the angels."

I grin. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

We lock eyes for a long moment as we read each other. "No, you're not," he says at last. He blinks and closes his eyes brieftly before speaking softly and sounding insane. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He lets out a hiss of delighted laughter and his voice becomes more high-pitched. "You're me! _Thank_ you!" He lifts his right hand and it looks for a moment as if he might embrace me but lowers it and offers it to shake. "Sherlock Holmes." I look at it hesitantly, expecting some kind of trick like with the assassin. I offered my hand and they were shot when they took it. "Thank you," he says, nodding frenetically as I take it, his voice staying soft. "_Bless_ you." He blinks and lowers his gaze as if blinking back tears. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out. Well, good luck with that." He raises his eyes to mine and grins manically, his grip tightening on my hand as he pulls me forward, reaches into his waistband and pulls out a pistol. Instinctively I pull away and step backwards as he sticks the muzzle into his own mouth and pulls the trigger, dropping instantly.

I look down at the body and the triumphant grin on his face before spinning away, a bag of nerves all over again. There's no way to call the assassins off without jumping.


	34. Chapter 34

*Sophie's POV*

As we discuss our plan, my phone begins to ring and I raise it to my ear without looking at the caller display.

"Hello?"

"Sophie," dad says at the other end and I breath a sigh of relief.

"Hey, Sherlock," I say and the others spin around to look as I start walking towards the hospital. "You okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now," he orders.

"No, I'm coming in," I tell him.

"Just do as I ask," he says frantically. "Please." I consider the fact that Moriarty might be with him now, giving him instructions so comply, looking back at the group as they look back at me, confused.

"Where?" I ask, walking back towards them. Can he see me?

"Stop there," he says urgently as I step behind the ambulance building.

"Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

I look up and my eyes widen. "Oh shit, no!" The others follow my gaze upwards and their faces fill with equal horror.

"Oh God," John says beside me and Sam instantly has a hand on my shoulder.

"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... put it on speaker and we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?" John says anxiously as I lower the phone from my ear.

"An apology," dad replies, now on speaker. "It's all true."

"Wh-what?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Don't be so fucking stupid," I cry "Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake," dad says, his voice breaking.

"Sherlock ..." Dean says warningly.

"The newspapers were right all along," dad says tearfully. "I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up," John orders, taking the phone off of me and looking up to dad as he speaks. "The first time we met ... the _first time we met_, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever," he says and I shake my head.

"_You_ could." John says and dad laughs.

"I researched you," dad explains but it doesn't make sense. We didn't know we were going to meet him, you can't research the sorts of information we discussed that day. "Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick." My eyes widen slightly. Is that just me or did that sound like code. Maybe it's just me looking for hope in a lost cause but that sounded like he meant his suicide was going to be a trick.

"No," Dean demands sternly, grabbing the phone. "All right, stop it now." We begin to move towards the hospital.

"No," dad says urgently, "stay _exactly_ where you are. Don't move." We stop, our view still impeded by the ambulance building and Dean raises his hands in capulation.

"All right," he says.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me, all of you," he says, his voice becoming frantic. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" I ask.

"This phone call - it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they - leave a note?"

I shake my head, the certainty of my earlier epiphany leaving me as the reality of this hits home. "Leave a note when?" I ask, my voice becoming shaky.

"Goodbye, Sophie."

"No," I cry, tears beginning to fall. "Don't."

The phone leaves his hand as he throws it backwards.

"No," I cry, starting to hyperventalate. "DADDY!"

An inhuman scream leaves me as dad spreads his arms wide and falls forward, falling past the ambulance building and hitting the ground the other side.

"Sophie, no!" Dean calls as I run forward but my speed outmatches him and I continue onwards, my only thought on getting to dad.

I freeze as I round the corner and get the first glimpse of his body lying bloody and broken on the ground before he's surrounded by people. I push myself forwards as the medics come out, trying to prevent people from getting too close.

"He's my daddy," I whimper, trying to push through the crowd, "let me come through. Let me come through, please." Someone grabs my arm, trying to hold me back but I pull away. "No, he's my daddy. He's my daddy. Please." As the crowd parts slightly I see dad's whitened body up close. His curls are matted with blood and the blood on his face contrasts grotesquely with his pale skin. "NO!" I scream, crumpling to the ground. "NO! NO!"


	35. Chapter 35

The next few weeks pass me in a numb blur. I haven't gone back to the flat since, I can't bring myself to. Instead, I've been bedding down with some acquaintances while John's been at Lestrade's. We've barely spoken since it's happened. Sam and Dean went up to the roof afterwards and apparently Moriarty killed himself either before or after dad fell. At least that's one less thing to worry about.

I had to make sure that was definitely dad's body, so the funeral has been delayed by a few weeks so I could get the results back. It's definitely him. He's gone.

"Thanks for picking me up," I say as thr taxi rolls to a stop in front of me. I've walked to the end of the road so they can't see where I've been staying, but I can't hold eye contact as I slide into the car and put the bouquet of roses on my lap. I don't know why I bothered with flowers: you can't give gifts to a dead man. But somehow it just felt right.

The ride to the cemetery is painfully silent. I never told him how much he meant to me. I never told him I loved him. And now it's too late. He's gone.

The taxi pulls up outside the cemetry and John pays him before heading off. There won't be a service: dad was cremated yesterday, his ashes dropped in the Thames so he could continue to run through the veins of London. All today is about is visiting the new headstone. Just me, Mrs Hudson and John - the only people who still care. No Lestrade, Molly or Mycroft. Mrs Hudson and John won't talk to me. I'm alone.

The headstone is much like the one from _Mysteries in Stone - _plain and black, just his name in gold lettering. Mysterious in death as well as in life. I lay my flowers at its base and step back, taking in the sight.

"There's all the _stuff_, all the science equipment," Mrs Hudson says at last, breaking our silence. "I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school." She looks at me. "Did you want to keep any of it, dear?" I can't answer her, all I can do is look straight ahead, all of my attention focused on the headstone as if my loss of focus would bring the world crumbling down. Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad idea. She tries John instead. "Would you ...?"

"I can't go back to the flat again - not at the moment." She takes his arm sympathetically before he continues. "I'm angry." John takes a deep breath through his nose, trying not to break down and Mrs Hudson gently pats his arm.

"It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made _everyone_ feel. All the marks on my table; and the _noise_ \- firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah."

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine - keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes." I close my eyes as she continues, her words striking me like knives but she continues, her voice breaking.

"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

John turns to her. "Yeah, listen: I-I'm not actually _that_ angry, okay?"

"Okay." She turns away pulling her arm free of his. "I'll leave you both alone to, erm ..." Her voice breaks again, "... you know." Crying, she walks away, fishing out a tissue to blow her nose.

John looks down at the grave, drawing in a deep breath. He looks back over his shoulder, then turns back to the grave again.

"Um ... mmm," he says, pulling himself together a little before starting. "You ... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn't even think you were _human_, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There." He blows out a breath, whimpering slightly and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying. Awkwardly, he walks over to the headstone and puts his fingertips onto the top of it. "I was _so_ alone, and I owe you so much." He pauses to take a tearful breath. "Okay." John turns and starts to walk away but only reaches the foot of the grave before he turns back again. "No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't ... be ... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this." He sighs and lowers his head and stands there, broken. He lowers his head further, covers his eyes with one hand and weeps for no more than a few seconds before finally wiping his eyes, sniffing deeply and raising his head, coming to attention. He has to be brave, shield himself in his solider shell. Soldiers. Nodding in salute to him and giving himself permission to dismiss, he turns smartly on one heel and then walks away.

I stay behind. I still have my bit to say. I turn around to make sure John's out of earshot before I open my mouth.


	36. Chapter 36

*Sherlock's POV*

"Cemetry please mate," John says as he gets into the back of the cab. "We're picking someone up in Laurieston Gardens as well if you can go via there." I hum my response and Mrs Hudson climbs in the other side.

"She's not over at that house again is she, John?" she asks shaking her head. "The poor girl, I wish she'd come home." She leans forward and starts talking to me as I pull away. "Her father died a few weeks ago - suicide it was. The girl's been a wreck ever since." My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

I had hoped to come and find her at Baker Street so I could take her with me but things have changed and I'm going to have to maintain the facade of my death and cause her more pain.

The fact she's back in Brixton hurts as well. It's where she ran away to after Irene died the first time, and taking her back for a Study in Pink, as John calls it, must have brought those memories back again. She used to bed down with the homeless kids in the same house and for a long time, they were the only ones taking care of her.

I pull up outside the house and sure enough she stands there waiting. But she's completely unrecognisable from when I last saw her. Her face is sallow, her eyes dark and sunken and her clothes hang off of her as she waits.

"Thanks for picking me up," she says tiredly and avoids eye contact from John and Mrs Hudson as she sits down, placing a bouquet of white roses on her lap. John and Mrs Hudson exchange concerned glances as I pull away again and start driving towards the cemetry.

As I expected, none of them have realised it's me who's driving them. 'Nobody ever thinks about the cabby' certainly rings true here.

As I pull up outside the cemetry, John hands me a fistful of notes before they slide out and I set off again but stop just a little way down the road. Leaving the car by the side of the road, I walk back towards the cemetry to watch my burial.

Unsurprisingly, it's just John, Mrs Hudson and Sophie at the grave. Mother and father know so they don't need to be here, Mycroft knows and Molly provided the body so she also knows.

After Claudette's scream in the interview room, I realised Moriarty must have found someone who looks like me to kidnap her and her brother. They would have killed him soon after, meaning there was a dead body looking like me lying around in a morgue somewhere. Molly saw to that, much as she did when she found a body to match Irene's body at Christmas.

I watch as Mrs Hudson leaves Sophie and John behind to say a few things. From where I stand, I can't hear what they're saying, but they both look broken.

After a few minutes, John walks away and I move behind a tree to block his view of me before moving back around to watch Sophie. That ear-splitting scream as I jumped is a sound that will never leave me, just as the sight of her crumpling to the ground beside me won't. I want to walk over to her now and tell her everything will be okay but I can't. I need to disable Moriarty's network and Sophie needs to stay away from that. She may be broken now but she's incredibly strong and will move on. She needs to forget about me, as I did with Irene. And I have to hope she doesn't fall as far as I did when doing it.

As I step back out of the way when she turns, I step onto a dry stick and her head snaps over in my direction. For a moment, her eyes rest on me and I consider stepping out and revealing myself properly but she has already moved on, leaving me to wonder how many other times she's thought she's seen me.

I watch her leave through the gates, and as she disappears the sound of wheezing engines and cranking motors fill the air and I turn around as the TARDIS lands behind me.

"Perfect timing as ever, Doctor," I say as I walk inside and he looks up from the console, looking conflicted.

"I'm changing the deal, Sherlock," he says, looking up.

"No," I reply sternly. "We had an agreement."

"Use the TARDIS to catch you and then off to destroy Moriarty's Web, yes," he says angrily but takes a breath before continuing. "But we're picking Sophie up tonight."

"The whole point of this was to keep her safe."

"Yes but you shouldn't be alone. Neither of you." I look away and the Doctor goes back to his monitor.

"Out of every single person in this universe I thought you would be the last one to judge me."

He glares at his screen before kicking the console. The machine whines in response and he calls down slightly. "At least listen to these: this should change your mind." He touches the screen and a voice comes comes over the speaker, filling the room.

"Doc, please pick up." It's Dean. The Doctor stares ahead as I listen. "You gotta do something. And don't give me any of that 'fixed point' crap. I know you can save him, Doc. Don't you dare just sit back and watch. At least think of Sophie." The Doctor reaches up and slides the screen over to the next message.

"Dad's dead," Sophie cries over the speaker. "He fell and ended up on the bloody ground. But you were too busy gallivanting around the universe to save him, weren't you? Don't try looking for me."

"See?" the Doctor asks, teeth bared. "Your daughter is falling apart and only you can solve it."

"Don't you think I know that?" I hiss. "Don't you think the only thought that has been going through my mind the last few weeks is of her? I can't allow her to get hurt. She stays behind." The Doctor doesn't respond, glaring ahead in almost as much self-hatred as I'm feeling now, but eventually he huffs and reaches for the controls, starting the engines before we take off.


End file.
